


L'enfer des autres

by sybilius, tartpants



Series: Black Beats and Low Leads [5]
Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga), Death Note: Another Note
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad shit is going to happen, Detectives, Drug Addiction, Gaslighting, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mystery, New Orleans, No but take that tag seriously, Oral Sex, Poor communications, Relationship Issues, Sex addiction (background), Sex to avoid communication, Shingami - Freeform, Shinigami Eyes, Vacation, Voodoo, emotional issues, noir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2018-11-13 23:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11195268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tartpants/pseuds/tartpants
Summary: Run ragged from months of demanding casework, B and L try and repair their relationship by taking a vacation in New Orleans. The two of them find themselves haunted, L by a fascinating case involving a vampiric cult, and B by a monstrous apparition who claims to know the secret behind his eyes.





	1. March 22, 2000

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the fifth installment from 'Black Beats and Low Leads', an artifact-based roleplay and collaborative storytelling project about the World's Greatest Detective and his allies. The goal of this project is to create a comprehensive noir-themed backstory for B and L Lawliet, answering questions about how L came to be the World's Greatest detective, and the motivations for his actions and allies in Death Note.
> 
> 'Black Beats and Low Leads' takes place in three arcs-- this story takes place in June 1998, several years before the LABB murder cases. The third and fourth beats in this series take place within the first arc (Young A, B, and L). Stories from the third arc (Death Note Era/Post LABB) will be added as they are developed.
> 
> This beat takes place in the second arc, of which there are two stories before it. "Lost a Heart in Vegas" and "Hermitage for Children and Liars" preclude it chronologically, though for maximal context you may wish to read all of the stories. 
> 
> Every story in Black Beats and Low Leads is meant to be a standalone as well, so you may start with this tale if you wish. 
> 
> If you wish to keep up with 'Black Beats and Low Leads' in real time, the writers blogs can be found on tumblr, and the roleplay organized in the "beats log". At the end of a beat, the writing and artifacts will be compiled into a chapters/stories such as this one.
> 
> L: lowlawliet.tumblr.com (written by Tartpants)  
> B: noirberryjam.tumblr.com (written by Sybilius)
> 
> Hope you enjoy this story, and please leave a comment with your thoughts!

**March 22, 2000**

_Seaside Town [do not edit or repost]_

__

_Est. 1909 [do not edit or repost]_

* * *

L doesn’t know how anyone in this town gets out alive.

And maybe that’s the point, isn’t it? A tiny town settled on an inlet off the Gulf of Mexico, Apalachicola, Florida seems like a perfectly lovely place for spending ones last few years on this earth. The drive up from Miami had been long, the most interesting scenic detail the number of billboards dedicated to god and unborn babies, reminding L once more of how peculiar and puritanical the Southern states are.

But as soon as they got close to the ocean, the trees towered over the road in a tunnel of green, glimpses of bright blue ocean glinting just beyond. B put the top down on the Ford Mustang convertible and they breathed in the salt on the breeze, which was sunnier and fresher than England’s coastal air. No, this was the sort of air that lemons and oranges grow in.

In Apalachicola proper, they eat at one of the five oyster restuarants in town, choosing a shack-style bar and grill that overlooks the water. The man sitting nearest them is still young but has permenant squint-lines around his eyes, and he speaks to the waitress in monosyllables about the new nets on his oyster boat. L only manages a few of the char-grilled oysters before focusing on his basket french fries, rattling on to B about all the facts about the area that he researched before hand.

“The river meets the ocean right over there.” He points with a french fry. “See the discoloration? It’s brackish. Sometimes dolphins swim in.” A seagull screeches and swoops down through the wide, open window, neatly plucking the french fry right out of L’s hand.

The nearby fisherman lets out a rusty chuckle. “Gotta watch out for them somabitches.“

“Why doesn’t it eat my oysters?” L wonders mildlly, casting an eye at his barely-touched plate.

“Nah, they’d rather eat that fried shit. You fellas heading to Panama City for Spring Break?” He pushes back his ballcap to get a better look at them, though he doesn’t seem all that curious. It’s just something to do – a way to pass the time. “What school you go to?”

B makes a small noise that L recognizes as a supressed laugh. “Yeah, we don’t go to school. We’re just taking a little road trip.” He turns his eyes to L, a small, almost bashful smile flitting across his face. “New Orleans. Neither of us have ever been.”

The fisherman whistles and wipes his mouth with a grease-spotted napkin. “Hell of a city. Only been there once, but I won’t soon forget it.” He wads the napkin up and tosses it aside, then drains the last of his Abita beer. “We still got them beat on oysters down here, though.” He gives them a wide, surprisingly-white smile and lumbers out of his barstool, tossing a twenty down on the table.

L and B watch him go, not speaking for a moment, then turn back to the view of the sun, dropping closer to the line of the water.

“Before the railway was established, this was the third-busiest port on the Gulf of Mexico.” L returns to his history lesson, though a lot of the details have already slipped away, carried off by a field of blue waves, soothing and hypnotic.

“Before the railway, huh?” It seems like a time out of myth, a past he doesn’t quite believe existed. The way Lawliet pulls facts out of nowhere, like an eager teenager who would remember positively everything, gathering puzzle pieces that might fit together to form a complete story. _Now he only collects the sharp ones, the ones that help with the cases._

_Still. It’s nice to see that person is still there somewhere._

The way Lawliet pushes his oysters around his plate without touching them doesn’t really suggest that, though. Lawliet looks more gaunt than ever in the bright sunlight, the last year seeming like it’s shaved years off his date. B looks between his eyes and attempts a smile. _Same as ever._

B wonders to himself if this trip he pushed on them after the fucking joyride that was the Langley case could be some kind of turning point. Though Lawliet’s ‘phet habit hasn’t pushed him off the rails yet, B can’t help but think during every bad comedown it’s only a matter of time before something breaks.

_Come on Lawliet. You’ve got so many years left. Make them good ones._

He doesn’t dare to hope at this point. _At least it’s nice to see him here, and not that asshole detective._ B can’t remember the last time L had done a case sober, can’t remember the last time he had come home and had _someone_ to hold back the newly made filmstrip of blood and memory. _Never mind going through the same damn memory with him again–_

_Hey. Don’t think too much about what forced us here._

_What matters is that we’re here._ And they both slept dreamlessly last night, so that’s enough for now. His attention shimmers back to the present, just as Lawliet finishes another fact about shipping routes.

“What do you know about the temperature of brackish water in March? Could do with a walk along the beach, I guess,” B finishes off his own oyster basket, trying to focus on what normal people might enjoy on a vacation. _Cause that’s what we need right now, isn’t it?_

__Something like ‘normal’_ . _

* * *

“A walk sounds good to me.” L managed to eat just over half of his french fries, which were nice but filled him up far too quickly. He can’t eat as much as he used to – part of getting old, maybe.

Then the waitress calls him ‘son’ when she drops off the bill, and he remembers that he’s twenty.

Walking through the tiny fishing village they end up wandering down the middle of the street by accident, encouraged by the complete lack of vehicles. Though the sun hasn’t set yet, the shops are all shut up for the night, and the locals sit on their sun-bleached porches with beer or iced-tea in hand, waving lazily as they pass by.

Near the beach they find a local with a metal detector, sweeping it over a sandy patch of tall, wind-swept grass. A few feet away, a cat capers around with a tiny crab.

“Evening, kids.”

L, who has just stepped on the sand, steps back immediately, putting his sneakered foot onto the crumbling sidewalk. “Good evening.”

B’s eyes dart in his direction, mild caution reflected there. But L’s fine, really. And it _is_ a nice evening, now that he notices. The ‘magic hour,’ as photographers call it. The sky has faded to a hazy lavender, and the moon is huge over the Gulf, though rather wan  and translucent, as if it’s only just considering making an appearance.

“Is this your cat?” B crouches down to pet the gray tabby, who rolls over to have its belly rubbed, like a dog. “Careful, you’ll get your paw pinched.”

“That’s the Captain.” The man nods and sweeps the metal detector around again. “Found him on my boat one morning and he’s been following me around ever since.”

L smiles a little and watches B play with the cat, teasing him with a long strand of grass. He knows this is the sort of thing normal people do on holiday. Walk around, make small talk with strangers, take in the sights. He’s not very good at any of it. “Let’s check out that beach while there’s still light,” he says softly, and B gives the cat a final pat before standing up and clasping their hands together.

“See you later,” B says cheerfully, though L knows they’ll never see the man again. Tonight,they’re just passing through.

* * *

 

The beach is calming in its loneliness. Despite the spring chill, B has a sudden desire to feel something sharp on his senses, something to take the edge off the energy that would usually be expended tearing down alleyways or trading fists. The ocean murmurs to him in a rhythm that reminds B with an ache of summers at Wammy’s.

“Nice view. Do you want your camera?”B reaches into the small bag that’s over his shoulder when Lawliet nods, calmly snapping a few postcard-worthy sunsets over the chilly water. _Maybe another time I would have gone for a swim._ His boots feel laced too-tight to his feet now, his body too heavy with memories.

 _But I want to feel like that again_ . He reaches for Lawliet’s hand once they’ve walked sufficiently far down the beach, wondering what it would be like for Lawliet, to see him like that again. _So that we could both remember_. He’s about to bend down to unlace his shoes when a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye forces his gaze to the sky.

From seemingly nowhere, one of the monstrosities of B’s subconscious streaks out of the sunset, horrifying skeletal wings visible on the horizon.

 _Shit, not now._  As the monster comes closer, B recognizes the flaming red hair, the body like a cross between a harpy and a poorly sewn-together doll. _A’s monster. The one in the graveyard in St. Petersburg._

 _Why now?_ He felt a flash of annoyance amid a low-level picking up of his heart. _Haven’t thought about her in at least a few months_. He decides to ignore it, rubbing Lawliet’s arm, going for his boots after all.

“I’m just gonna go check out the water, alright?”

“Sounds good,” he squeezes B’s fingers, “Watch out for the jellyfish. Some are venomous.”

“Yeah, I know, I know–” B tries to keep his voice light and teasing.

The sand is sharply cold on his toes, but it does nothing to dull the solid appearance of the monster, who is several yards away from them and _staring_ . B tries not to look too long at her dull-pink eyes and patchwork lips. She seems familiar in a way that feels _before_ Ace. In a past before Lawliet that he really, really doesn’t want to think about right now.

A few steps into the icy water pushes the monster out of his field of view, though he call feel it stalking, staying within a few yards of him. _Just fuck off so I can try to enjoy this and have something fucking normal for once._ The water feels crisp, cool.

“Hey,” Lawliet calls back to him, and snaps a picture just as he turns to smile. His toes are getting a bit numb, but that’s alright. Lawliet’s slight smile back is worth it.

“ _Beyond Birthday,”_ the apparition whispers, and he almost jumps. _That’s not A’s voice._ Not that the monstrosities often make noise, if they do it’s rather to laugh in deep, bone-rattling chuckles before taking flight. This voice is high and feminine, and it does laugh, a dry cackle at his obvious surprise.

“Bet you didn’t see that coming, did you?” the doll-monster cocks her head, and B stares incredulously a little too long before remembering who is watching.

* * *

 

L watches B wade into the gentle surf, smiling vaguely but tugged at by a strange feeling. Something sad and whimsical and nostalgic all at once. _I miss…_ but he can’t finish the thought properly, he only knows that there was a window of time when he would have gladly joined B in the water. But that window of time hadn’t been long – too brief, in fact.

Another crab scuttles by over some clumps of stringy seaweed. _And there’s jellyfish, too. Plus, someone has to stay dry enough to take some holiday photographs._ The roadside motel they checked into has some of the most hideously seashell-themed decor that L’s ever seen, but the bathroom is well appointed enough. _We can have a bath, later. Wash the sand off._ The thought causes a smile to shimmer over his features again.

B has stopped wading, glancing up at the sky. Just overhead there’s another seagull, hovering on the breeze. Before now, L had been neutral toward them. “Hey!” L snaps a photograph as B turns and flashes a smile, the wan moon looming over his shoulder. Then he looks up at the seagull again, his mouth going strangely slack.

“I think you’re safe so long as you’re not wielding fried food,” L calls out, though the sound must get sucked away because B doesn’t turn ‘round this time.

The gentle surf is starting to foam up and race closer to L’s sneakers. “I think the tide’s coming in.”

“Yeah.” B staggers back to him, his face curiously drained of colour.

L instantly reaches out for his arm. “What’s wrong? You didn’t actually get a jellyfish sting, did you?”

* * *

“No, I just…saw something,” B’s gaze moves without his permission to the monster again, who cocks her head at him, only a spinal cord connecting her ragdoll head to her bone-feather body

“Something…?” Lawliet takes his hand carefully, squeezing gently at first.

“Not memories. A monster,” B tears his eyes away from the grinning figure on the beach who waves, just like in the graveyard. He fights the urge to wave back, to turn back. _It doesn’t exist. Just ignore your eyes and focus on Lawliet._

The monster laughs at his back, though he can hear her moving closer, “What do you think you’re seeing, Beyond?”

 _Shut up. I don’t need this shit right now_. He takes a few steadying breaths, feeling Lawliet’s fingers tighten against his.

“Do you want to go back to the hotel?” the smile has vanished from Lawliet’s lips, replaced by the tired furrow of concern.

B tilts his head so that it’s touching Lawliet’s shoulder, and closing his eyes helps a little, for once. He feels something like a sharp gust of wind, which causes Lawliet to shiver too. Like wing beats. When he opens his eyes, A’s monster is gone. _Thank God for that._

_Thank him for that._

“Yeah,” B nuzzles his neck carefully, “Think that’d be for the better.”

* * *

B shakes off the next question L gently lobs at him, and L supposes it’s for the best. Whatever vision B saw, it’s gone now, and he doesn’t glance up at the sky as they make the short walk back to the motel.

Still, it’s peculiar that B saw something at _all_ , given that they’re on holiday and away from the up and down stresses of work. But the Langley case – yes, it had been just that bad. _Maybe._ Back in their salt-and-damp smelling room, L suggests a shower and B nods eagerly enough. The water is hot and plentiful, and L takes a fussy kind of pleasure in soaping B up from top to bottom, massaging shampoo into his thick curls, and kissing suds off the tip of his nose. The showering turns into sloppy handjobs, which turns into leisurely sex out on the bed, the radio crackling AM tunes about margaritas and summer sunsets. After L comes, he sucks his boyfriend off until he’s clawing at the pillows and shooting deep into L’s throat, gasping and still glazed with steam from the shower. Visions be damned.

“Fuck, that was good,” B breathes out, lighting a cigarette as L nestles in beside him. _Good_ . Regular, good sex. Most of their fucking falls into two categories. It’s either quick and urgent, something to do while watching porn or _Big Trouble in Little China_ , or it’s a long symphony involving props, hydration breaks, and aftercare. They haven’t had regular good sex in a while. L isn’t actually sure it’s possible to have regular good sex back at Marylebone, so maybe a holiday really _was_ what they needed, after all.

 _And it is good_. L’s fingers glide in the space between B’s ribs as he tucks his chin into B’s shoulder and takes a tiny sip off the offered cigarette.

“New Orleans tomorrow. You excited?”

L nods into B’s shoulder, though he’s not sure _excited_ is the right word. It is something to look forward to, though. It’s one of the few noteworthy American cities that L has never visited – which is to say that it’s certainly the most crime-ridden American city that L’s never taken a case at.

“No more oysters or seagulls though,” L says, yawning. It feels peculiar to not be bone-crushingly tired. To have fatigue settle over him in a gentle gauze. “I want to try those beignets.”

“Ha, knew you would want those.” B stubs out his cigarette and rolls over to press their foreheads together, giving L a tobacco-tinged kiss. “You tired?” L nods and B smiles, kissing him again. “Same. Let’s sleep.”

And with no further prompting than that, they do.

* * *

 

B dreams and knows he’s dreaming, not that it makes the thoughts any easier to revisit. He dreams of Lawliet, he dreams of L. In a place that is nowhere in particular, a grotty hotel room he would have spent the night in alone.

But he’s not alone. Lawliet’s too-wide eyes glare back at him with L’s gaze, making B want to crawl to the ground, curl up at his feet.

Words swirl through, nasty ones muttered or imagined in the last few months. _‘You’re fucking destroying yourself.’_ B shakes his head, confused hearing his words on Lawliet’s lips.

_“You’re the junkie.”_

He says it because he can’t upon waking. But it feels good to, even as dream-Lawliet’s face crumples with anger the way B has seen it many times before.

 _‘Murderer.’_ Lawliet had been referring to a few cases back, but the words seem to fit when directed at him, and though B does fall to his knees, begging without words for Lawliet to just stay there’s something about the accusation that sticks.

“Beyond,” he says, and B looks at him strangely. Lawliet doesn’t call him ‘Beyond’ any more than B calls him L.

“Beyond.” But now the voice isn’t coming from him, is coming from…is that A or his mother? A female figure in the fog. He can’t tell from a distance but what he can see the lips. Smiling.

_Stitched lips._

B wakes more slowly, hearing his name on the lips of the monster who hangs over the bed. He flicks on the light. _Fucking fantastic._ The monster from the beach, from the graveyard is perched on the desk, watching Lawliet with big, black eyes in the soft dawn light.

“Hello, Beyond,” she stares at him piercingly, in that frighteningly familiar way. He tugs his gaze away, flicking on the lamp in the hopes that the light might throws some holes in this particular hallucination.

 _No dice, eh._ B considers waking Lawliet, but he looks so unusually still and peaceful that B can’t quite bring himself to do it. _So drawing it is, then._ B stifles a heavy sigh and reaches for his notebook.

“Not going to say hello, are you? We might as well be old friends.”

He doesn’t look up, just flips through the dates and images, some of them bright, but many of them. _Well, hell._

 _It’s not like they’re all things I want to remember_. Sometimes, B draws to forget, to box up the image and hope his subconscious will take that offering as enough. He raises his heavy head, deciding to try to do the same with this new apparition.

_Jesus, she’s ugly though._

_It’s ugly._ There’s something about this monster that’s disconcertingly real, disconcertingly there. B doesn’t want to think about it.

“Nice to see your pretty pretty eyes,” she sneers through her lips. J _ust shut up and go back where you belong._ As he carves out her form with the shitty pencil he nicked from the hotel desk, he starts to notice that she’s more birdlike than she is doll-like, though monstrous no matter which way you look at it. Her body carves out the natural shape of a patchwork dress. _Or is that clothing?_ B is certain a normal person wouldn’t be able to stare this long without screaming.

_But I’m not normal, am I? Especially since she comes from my head._

“Oh, are you drawing me? Mmm. I feel like someone I knew once would say that’s interesting,” she cocks her head back and forth, “Not another human, of course. I didn’t realize talking to humans would be so dull, but I guess I should have expected it.”

 _Jesus shit, this is weird._ B is tempted to try and measure her from a distance, get her bizarre proportions right. She stays still while the drawing takes shape. After he sets his pencil on the countertop, glancing to make sure Lawliet is still sound asleep, she hobbles over to stare at it.

“Mmm. I guess that’s me. Well _seen_ .” She laughs a little at that, and _god_ it is not a nice sound.

“The book’s almost full,” her voice is soft, childlike almost. Curious. Against his better judgment, B flips through the pages again, this time slower. She leans in a little bit, smirking at the inscriptions. He hesitates over an older one of Lawliet, a rare and relaxed sketch annotated only with his name.

“You draw him a lot, don’t you? L Lawliet. Why?”

_Yeah, I do. Now why don’t you fuck off so I can spend time with him?_

“His death date. It’s quite far from now, isn’t it?” she states in an almost bored manner, but B flinches violently to hear her mention the dates. _How does she know?_

 _She knows because you know, dumbass._ He tears his eyes away from her wide-eyed gaze, casually throwing down his sketchbook and flicking off the light. He forces his eyes shut, but he can still see her. This time, his mind’s eye carves out her form in a too-familiar, shitty apartment. He opens his eyes. _She’s still here. Fuck._

In the half-light, still staring at the open drawing of her, she whispers, “My name. It’s Nirae.”

Before he falls asleep, he scrawls it onto the corner of the drawing.

_My name is Nirae [do not edit or repost]_

* * *

 

**March 23, 2000**

L awakes to the smell of fresh coffee – something he’s sure is part of a dream until his eyes flutter open and he spots the two take-away cups on the motel room’s small table, next to a couple of danishes. The cups bear the logo of the mom n’ pop cafe attached to the side of the motel.

“Breakfast?” His voice is rusty but he lifts his head off the pillow and manages a smile at B, who’s reading one of the battered paperbacks they picked up at a shop near Russell Square.

“Yeah, better drink it while it’s hot.” B sips from his cup and returns the smile, though it doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

L drops a kiss on the top of his head and collapses naked into the opposite chair, ripping off a corner of danish and jamming it into his mouth, ignoring the shower of crumbs that fall down his chest. Behind the heavy curtains, the sunlight is crisp and bright. L drinks down half of his coffee in silence, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, but even first thing in the morning he’s still a detective. The number of butts in the ashtray have multiplied since last night, and there’s smudges of graphite on the side of B’s hand, a weariness etched in the tension across his forehead. _Bad dreams? More visions?_ L finishes his danish and crunches the paper wrapper into a ball. If B wants to talk about it, he will. That’s one thing L can be sure of.

“Let me clean up a bit and we can hit the road,” L says, draining the rest of his coffee and heading for the bathroom. He splashes cold water on his face, brushes and flosses his teeth, and slips back into the same clothes he wore yesterday. His little travel kit of toiletries is still packed the same way he’d pack for a case. Lots of pills: some tiny and discreet as baby aspirin, though he knows them all by heart, from adderall to the orange dextroamphetamine capsules. Rectangles of Xanax in case of desperation. He’s not desperate now, though the sound of the pills rolling around in their bottles almost makes him wish he was. It’s the heart-thumping fervor of a case that he wants, a craving so profound that he swallows down half an adderall just to keep it at bay. Half an adderall is nothing. Like drinking a few strong cups of coffee.

Outside the bathroom he chucks the toiletry kit into his suitcase and pulls his sneakers on without socks, giving the seashell-themed decor one last look.

“What do you think?” He palms the keys to their mustang convertible from the nightstand. “Want to drive first shift, or second?”

* * *

 

“I’ll take first,” B crushes the remains of his cigarette, trying, and failing to avoid the sinking rush that accompanies the start of a case. _It’s not a case, it’s a fucking rest from those._

 _Plenty of time to go back to that shit next week._ B takes the gearshift in hand and revs them out of the little nowhere town with slightly more force than is necessary. It doesn’t escape Lawliet’s attention, _not that anything could do that_ , who tucks his fingers overtop of B’s.

 _Yeah, so maybe things aren’t all that bad._ Lawliet, at least, seems pleasant and relaxed, murmuring out a few more facts and passing B some Haribo cherries they picked up from the hotel gift shop, occasionally slipping them between his lips. It’s nice in the way that B had _desperately_ hoped it would be.

_God knows we need this._

The sky looms with the weight of something grey and grim, but B doesn’t catch wings on the horizon either. After three solid hours of resort towns with the same damn high-rises over and over again, they pull over at a gas station next to a vivid-pink souvenir shop.

“What do you think? Paperweights for Marylebone?” he bumps Lawliet fondly on the shoulder, and they both head in for more sweets and some film for Lawliet’s camera. Upon mentioning it, it’s hard not to think about the claustrophobic penthouse that B almost thinks of as home, or something like it.

 _Everything about it belongs to_ his _cases. None of it belongs to us._ B isn’t sure what home is supposed to feel like, but if he’s honest, the car they just rented already feels safer than Lawliet’s penthouse these days. _Maybe it’d be improved by one of these shitty signs,_ he smirks a little bitterly, regarding the aisles and aisles of brightly-painted junk.

_Yeah, keep hoping._

B slips outside, checking behind him to make sure Nirae hasn’t reared her ugly head again. _Still safe_. In the midday sun poking through the clouds, a group of girls pull up in a bright red convertible, real spring-breakers chattering excitedly. He lights a cigarette, thinking about the last case, about the ghosts Lawliet himself had seen during the comedown nightmares.

 _Wonder if he ever sees monsters._ B doesn’t particularly want to ask, and doesn’t think Lawliet will take the question well, either. He takes another drag, wondering if they should grab burgers before hitting the road again.

“Hey cutie, where you coming from?” one of the girls crows, tossing her highlighted hair with a grin.

 _Somewhere you don’t even want to know,_ B waves back, shaking his head, and _ah, shit. That’ll just encourage her._ She’s already striding over, her lips painted in a color B has worn himself, on occasion. B wants to laugh a bit, thinking about him and Lawliet as spring breakers, college kids, the kind of person that girls like this go after. _Christ, what a thought._

Her name and death date come into view, just as she says something B doesn’t quite hear over the rush of the afternoon traffic. It almost sounds like wingbeats.

* * *

 

“You should be careful who you talk to.“

The shiny-haired blonde jumps visibly when L speaks to her back, whirling around and regarding him with a squint of confusion. Her hands flutter over her torso uncertainly, as if she wishes she were wearing more than a tie-dyed bikini top and a tiny pair of cut-off shorts. She looks like a girl from a porno L put on a few weeks ago, but didn’t actually watch. L pegs her as a sorority girl from one of those corn-fed states that start with the letter “I.

He rattles his sack of film and candy and slouches up to B’s side, smiling in what he knows must be a ghoulish fashion. "Robbery and sex crimes increase up to 75 percent in towns like these during Spring Break.” B laughs uncertainly and the girl takes a few slow steps backwards before whirling around, fleeing back to the safety of her friends.

“You just had to terrify her, then?” B tosses him the car keys, his smile is tight even though his tone is playful.

“Naivete never did anyone a bit of good.” L is pretty sure his smile is just as tight as he gets behind the wheel, but by the time they’ve taken the nearest exit and are speeding toward the Alabama state line, a steady string of Haribo and decent music has him relaxed again. The same can’t be said for B, who’s curled up against the passenger door and tugging at his hair in a pensive, detached manner.

L crawls his fingers over to B’s leg, squeezing lightly. _I’m here, I’m on holiday with you. Isn’t that enough? What you wanted?_

The memory comes creeping back like a swelling tide of salt water. Minor and not-so-minor fights over the last six months, culminating in a particularly nasty one that had the taste of six years ago on it. Six years ago was just that – _ago_ . But B wanted to go back there, sometimes, and L only wanted to look forward. Was only _able_ to look forward. As for the fight, L really only remembers tossing every one of B’s belongings into the lift at Marylebone, daring him to get out.

 _Do it._ The shaking, pointing finger. _I dare you._

And B shrugged on his jacket and barely blinked. _“Guess I will, then.”_

The rest is a merciful blur, but L remembers this much: B called his bluff, and he didn’t take it well. At all. The ensuing compromise involved agreeing to take some time off from case work. To go on holiday, like normal people.

_But who ever gave you the idea we could be normal?_

The rest of the drive through Mississippi and into Louisiana isn’t particularly scenic, dotted with suburban strip malls, rusty shipyards, and oil refineries. Things look even worse as they pass through the outskirts of New Orleans, but L finds it more familiar and comforting than seashell decor and windswept beaches.

“Louisiana operates under a kind of archaic Napoleonic legal code leftover from the French and Spanish colonies,” he announces. Archaic and frankly fascinating, since it allows judges a significant amount of leeway in how they interpret the law.

“Oh?” B uncoils from his seat a bit, though his voice still seems distant. “That affect anything here?"

"Lots of corruption. The DAs and police at each others throats.” L pauses. “In New Orleans, over ninety percent of people arrested for murder are released within sixty days.” He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, agitated. Excited. He sees B looking and stops at once.

“That’s interesting.” Cold and snappy this time, not distant at all.

“Mmm.” L pushes the button that rolls the top down, sending a gust of warm air over them. It feels like relief. “Look.” L points as he takes the off-ramp. “It’s St. Louis Cemetery Number One.”

* * *

 

The way Lawliet, or rather L, wards off the girls leaves a bad taste in his mouth as they pull out of the concrete paradise. It’s not just that the girl is young and too stupid to know better, but the way he motions B into the passenger’s seat makes B feel more like a gang thug with his boss, rather than a tourist with his lover.

Lawliet’s hand on his thigh doesn’t do much to shake off the creep of thoughts from the past six months, especially as the landscape turns dull again. A particularly nasty comedown flashes into B’s mind, where B himself was barely able to hold together amidst Lawliet’s shaking body, the acidic tone of L’s words and flinch. Sometimes he gets in so deep it’s hard to tell where the detective ends and the man begins.

 _And he sure is shit-all at being a good man when that happens._ B tries to throw that errant thought into the wind, deliberately pushing away L’s bluff from their last fight. If he thinks about it too hard, he knows he’ll fall apart. _Like a lot of fucking things, but that doesn’t mean I hide all the time._ The way Lawliet talks about what tore them apart six years ago now is calloused and distant. Through someone else’s voice, as if it happened to someone else.

_How the fuck can you help me to move on from any of this when you’re still running from your own shit?_

They’re both running and it feels like they always have been. _And maybe I shoulda known that was what being away from him was really about._ B isn’t sure.

B is getting tired of running. _But I’d sooner die than leave without Lawliet_.

L, on the other hand, he wishes they could both walk out on that shit. _But it isn’t just the dexys Lawliet is addicted to_ , B thinks ruefully as Lawliet rhymes off another fact.

"Lots of corruption. The DAs and police at each others throats. In New Orleans, over ninety percent of people arrested for murder are released within sixty days.”

 _God, murder stats again?_ “That’s interesting.”

_No, it sure as shit isn’t just the dexys._

B turns away towards the cemetery, almost claustrophobic with headstones. Though it’s an appropriately fascinating sight he was looking forward to seeing, the graveyard just reminds him of Nirae, and of the murder stats Lawliet had stated moments before, “Pretty neat.”

He bites his tongue on the question of how many of those graves are homicide victims. That’s the last thing he wants to talk about right now. They pull into the parking at Hotel Monteleone, a stunning classical hotel in the heart of the French Quarter. Even in his jeans with his leather slung over his shoulder, the lobby boy doesn’t give B a second look. _I guess they’re used to types like me in this city._

B isn’t sure if that’s comforting or disconcerting, but it does make him feel a little more at home. Their room isn’t too bad either, a little too upscale for B’s taste, but definitely the envy of anyone on a romantic vacation. Stunning chandeliers, a sitting-room with a nice couch, soft-patterned curtains. Hell, there are even curtains above the bed, which B suspects with a smirk, are likely to get in their way later.

He tosses his bag on the desk, trying to dissipate the tension of the drive, “So what do you think? Wanna get a drink at the Carousel, then see what the city is like?”

* * *

 

L agree to drinks first, because even if he doesn’t care much for alcohol, he knows that in a city where the most famous street is named “Bourbon,” they’ll have to imbibe at least a little.

Downstairs they wander around the lobby first, taking in the impressive _Beaux Arts design_ and the cases of literary memorabilia. William Faulkner, Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams, and other famous writers had all been regulars at the Hotel back in their day, and as he squints over a display of Faulkner’s faded letters on Hotel Monteleone stationary, L realizes that this is perhaps the first non-case-related reading he’s done in – _years?_ Well, a while.

“We should find a bookstore tomorrow,” he murmurs to B, who nods as if he likes the idea, at least.

He definitely likes the carousel bar, half-filled even at late-afternoon. The plush chairs and cut-crystal side tables can’t compete with the resplendent antique carousel bar, revolving at a snail’s pace and decked out in lights and mirrors. The waitstaff and bartender are dressed in crisp, formal clothes, but the clientele are dressed casually enough for them to fit in, though they clearly skew a bit younger than most.

“Shit, I was expecting something more circus-like,” B says, taking one of the few open seats at the carousel bar and draping his leather jacket over the back of the chair. L does the same with his hoodie, wishing he could take off his sneakers and curl his bare toes over the brass rungs of his barstool.

“Gentlemen.” The blandly handsome bartender slides two slim cocktail menus before them. “Our house specials.”

It’s full of drinks that L has never heard of – Vieux Carre, Sazerac, Fleur Des Lis. He goes for the Sazerac because ‘simple syrup’ is listed as one of the ingredients, but when B’s milk punch comes out, looking a whole lot like some alcoholic version of a milk shake, L regrets his choice a bit. He regrets it even more when he takes a sip of the Sazerac and discovers it’s barely sweet. Wincing, he coughs hard, overcome by the smoky bourbon flavour.

“Don’t like it?” The bartender is over in a jiffy, concern etched on his forehead. “I can make you something else.”

“Maybe –” L swallows hard and notices the smile that B’s barely trying to hide, nudging him a little with the side of his knee. “Could you just add some grenadine and cherries?”

He obliges at once, whisking a clean napkin under L’s sticky glass.

* * *

 

B sips the heady, sweet drink, smirking a little at Lawliet, and enjoying the circus glow of the lights on Lawliet’s cheekbones, “Wanna try some of mine? It’s not bad. Little bit too balanced for my tastes, but what can you do?”

“Ask the bartender, I’m sure he’d oblige you with a spoonful of strawberry jam,” Lawliet smirks dryly, and B does break into a grin then, just as the bartender returns with the glass loaded with cherries. B palms the glass and steals a sip before Lawliet can, nodding in approval.

“Y’know, I think that’s more to my tastes, if you want to keep the punch?” B tilts his head, and Lawliet takes a quick drink of the now vivid-red Sazerac.

“You can keep it,” Lawliet smiles a little back, and it seems like, for a moment, they might be having a little bit of a good time. B swings his legs along the slowly rotating carousel until they bump against Lawliet’s, settling into a comfortable, silent contact.

“In town for a while, gentlemen?” the bartender asks, “best be on the alert, there are a few tourists staying here that are still missing. Of course, nothing too unusual around these parts, but worth taking care about.”

“Thanks, good to know,” B takes a sip of the sickly Sazerac, feeling a little nostalgic about missing tourist cases. _That’s not what we’re here for, after all._ It’s a moment later he misses the gentle warmth of Lawliet’s knee against his.

* * *

 

The back of L’s neck tingles at the mention of missing tourists, and he chews resolutely through two or three cherries to stop himself from digging for more information. _Even in a city as corrupt as New Orleans the police would investigate missing tourists. It’s taken care of._ But even B looks a tiny bit curious – enough to make L hide a smile behind his glass. Even when they fall into reminiscing, most of it’s about the mad shit they’ve done on case together: rubbing strawberry jam on those security camera lenses in Vegas; zipping around Saint Petersburg on a motorbike; that car chase on Bundesautobahn 9 outside of Berlin..

 _We’re good on the job together_ , L thinks, watching as B snags one of his cherries and tosses it into his mouth. _Maybe it’s not a break from the casework that we need, but more casework_ together.

It’s too soon to suggest it, though. He tosses an American twenty on the bar and gives the bartender a nod before turning to B. “Ready to explore?”

With the sun gone down, the atmosphere of the French Quarter has shifted; one part of town has rolled up its carpets for the night, but the other has barely warmed up. The quaint antique shops along Royal Street are locked up tight with security gates, but neon spills from narrow doorways that lead to clubs and bars, and a mish-mash of music and peculiar odors (some pleasant, others not so much) leads them toward Bourbon Street.

“Never seen anything in the States that looks this old before,” B gazes up at the fancy iron balconies and galleries, some dripping with freshly watered plants, others hosting candle-lit trysts. L doesn’t offer up any historical tid-bits, this time. The flickering gas lamps on some of the buildings, paired with the clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages, makes the pull of history and ghosts feel all too real.

“Like a different country,” L agrees.

Mardi Gras was a few weeks ago, but Bourbon Street is still bedecked with its remnants, the galleries sparkling with strands of plastic beads. Though it’s early evening and a Tuesday, the street is fairly swollen with tourists, many of them chugging from colorful plastic cups holding equally colorful drinks. A riot of competing music styles blasts from the clubs and bars, some playing top 40, others featuring live zydeco bands or karaoke performers. In some windows, fully-nude dancers grin and pose invitingly. It’s not too dissimilar from the Red Light Districts of Hong Kong or Amsterdam, but all the more surreal for being in America, land of the devout and puritanical.

“Getting hungry?” B asks over the music, and they pass by a number of famous Creole restaurants to grab stools in a corner joint that specializes solely in greasy pizza and those huge cups of frozen alcoholic beverages. They dispense straight from the wall and come in an endless array of flavours. B gets strawberry; L asks for pina colada and cherry. They come out in giant polystyrene cups, and their pizza slices barely fit on the paper plates.

“Cheers, as they say.” L bumps their cups together and takes a long drink.

* * *

 

_Street food [do not edit or repost]_

* * *

 

The cheer spills out onto the streets when they finish up their would-be dinner. B knows the drinks are strong, since he rarely ever feels the bubble of warmth sparkling over his skin. Lawliet is uncharacteristically handsy on the streets, too, tucking his hand into B’s jeans’ pocket as they peruse the shop windows.

A particularly garish display of skulls, beads, and glowing candles catches B’s eye. At first he believes he might be hallucinating parts of it, _but nah, that’s just what it’s like here, huh?_ _Place made for monsters._

“Can we look in?” B mumbles, and yeah, his words aren’t quite slurred yet. He smirks at Lawliet’s grin.

“What?”

_House of Voodoo [do not edit or repost]_

“Come on, let’s go,” he tugs on Lawliet’s hand to slip into _Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo_ . On the inside it seems slightly less authentic, more t-shirts and gimmicky crystals than bizarre handmade dolls of lace and bone. _The displays are fucking cool, though._

The one centered around a white-painted mannequin offering a scarlet bottle beckons to a ramshackle cabinet of various ‘potions’. Not a scrap of the walls or ceilings are uncovered, bedecked with Dusty jewelry cabinets offer strange pendants, ornate candles, and what may be real human skulls. _Wonder who dug those poor sods up._ There are a few markings that could give someone like B clues as to method of death.

 _Guess if I wanted to escape thinking about that, shouldn’t have vacationed in the City of the Dead,_ B smirks ruefully, but in truth, the otherworldly freakishness of the place makes him feel right at home, Lawliet’s hand in his.

B stops short at the altar in the corner that warns of an _ETERNAL CURSE_. In the glow of the lit candles, sitting cross-legged in her feathered-dress, is B’s own monster. Playing with the candle flames, hissing through the lip-stitches when her clawlike fingers get close.

“ _Well, fuck_ ,” B thinks out loud, more loudly than he expected to. Nirae smiles, or something like it, and waves at him again. _Yeah, stop fucking doing that._

“Something the matter?” Lawliet tugs at his fingers gently. B is momentarily at a loss for words, glaring into Nirae’s glittering eyes. Before he can think what to say, a wizened woman bedecked with beads and a peculiar patterned headwrap.

“You,” her voice crackles as she glances almost, but not quite directly at Nirae. More in the direction of the altar, towards the candle that flickers with Nirae’s fingertip. _The fuck? Can she…see it?_ B doesn’t have time to think on that before the fortune teller’s strides towards him, her eyes wide.

“What are you coming here for? What are you bringing with you?”

* * *

The voodoo shop has plenty of tourist appeal, that’s for sure, but there’s just enough lack of polish and ramshackle quality to the goods to give L pause. He studies a crammed display of felt gris-gris bags filled with salt and herbs and notes the crooked stitching. Someone made them all by hand. The work of a true believer – in capitalism, if nothing else. L sees at least two shoppers pick out gris-gris bags and take them to the til up front.

The altar of offerings has numerous signs posted nearby warning, not to touch or take pictures. Amongst the candles are coins and dried flowers, even a braid of hair tied with faded ribbons. B seems to pale as he takes the whole scene in, his fingers going a little slack in L’s hand. “Something the matter?” L pulls at his fingers, searching for his attention, the fizz of the alcoholic slurpee still blurring his senses.

“What are you coming here for? What are you bringing with you?” The voice is so hostile that L is sure it must be meant for some rowdy customer, but no, the old woman is glaring directly at them. Her face is sun-beaten and wrinkled, but her teeth are white enough to clash amidst he fringed details of her gipsy-like costume.

L glances down at his hand, clasped around B’s. New Orleans was the last place in the States he expected to be singled out for being gay, but then again, it’s still the deep South.

“Pardon?” He puts on his stuffiest British voice and lifts an eyebrow at the woman.

“Not you – _him_ .” She points a gnarled finger at B. Her marble-mouthed accent sounds like a Southern twang mixed with a flat Brooklyn tone, a true _Noorlins_ dialect. “Death be trailing him like a foul stench.”

B startles, his face as stricken as if he’s been slapped, and L takes a semi-defensive step in front of him, gently pressing their shoulders together.

“No need to put on a show,” he murmurs to the woman, noticing the eyes of the other customers. “Must be a slow night.”

He doesn’t wait around long enough for her to respond, pulling B to the narrow doorway and down the short, crooked stairs, back out into the cacophony of jazz and pop music. “You alright?” he asks, pulling them into an alcove with an overflowing dumpster. The neon lights paint B’s cheeks a bright pink, but his face is still drawn and pale.

* * *

 

_“You alright?”_

“No– yes. I don’t know,” B leans heavily against the brickwork, the acrid stench of piss in the alleyway prickling at his nerves. He takes a few breaths while Lawliet rubs his back wordlessly.

 _How the fuck could she know what I was looking at unless–_ B doesn’t want to think about it. _But jesus, I have to say something. This isn’t normal._ He almost wants to laugh at that thought, if the words weren’t caught in his throat.

“You remember the monster I saw in Apalachicola? On the beach?”

“I remember.”

“I’ve seen it before, a long time back in St. Petersburg. When we were trying to find out what happened to A. But this was different. She– it talked to me. The visions don’t usually talk, they either laugh or say things I’ve heard before. Memories-like,” B flits his eyes back and forth, half expecting Nirae to materialize out of the wall, or streak through the sky overhead. Lawliet just nods, clearly balancing what ought to be said.

 _What the fuck is there to say?_ B isn’t sure he wants to continue either, isn’t sure if anything he could say would make this easier for him to take. _Is it even gonna help anything?_

“I saw her last night, too. Like. Watching us, in our room,” B grips Lawliet’s fingers hard.

“Watching…”

“When I woke up. You were asleep. She…said some things to me. Like she wanted to talk to me. There’s a…drawing of her in my sketchbook, I’ll show you. And she was in the shop, by the altar, just now. The woman was looking at her. Well, not quite at her. In her direction,”  B swallows hard, “Christ. This is going to sound….crazy, but I think she could see her too. Or at least sense her.”

* * *

“Her?” L nibbles on the end of his thumb, still vaguely-sweet from their drinks, and wonders how B’s monster has a gender, of all things. His visions have been vivid in the past, but L can’t recall them being quite so specific – particularly during the drifting lulls of their otherwise frenetic lives.

“Perhaps the woman was just putting on a bit of a drama for the customers, though…” he frowns even as the words come out, suspicious of coincidence. Always suspicious of coincidence. You can take the detective out of his armchair, but he’s still a detective.

“Maybe I should go talk to her?” He suggests, curiosity gnawing more insistently now. B’s visions and ability to see death has been an enduring mystery from both of their childhoods, with no hint of proper explanation – until now, at least. But B shakes his head adamantly and tugs him by the hand, away from the dumpster and out into the streets.

“No, not now. I wanna have fun.” Determination is set in his jaw as they head for the quieter end of Bourbon Street, stopping at a bar’s to-go window for more fruity drinks.

At the corner of Bourbon and Toulouse, they dodge a horse-drawn carriage and end up in the thick of some kind of tour group, led by a woman dressed in black lace and brandishing a gas lantern.   

“Here we have the French Opera House, haunted by the ‘Witch’ Marguerite. A woman of only modest talent, her career was a flop and her husband perished before his time, leaving her penniless…"

The sad tale of Marguerite is delivered with the expertise of a college thespian, though most of the tour members seems too drunk to appreciate the melodrama. B and L move on without hearing the conclusion of Marguerite’s fate, which no doubt features a properly horrid and tragic death.

 _Nothing new to either of us_ , L thinks, squeezing B’s hand beneath the sputtering gas lamps. But being in a place where the horrors and tragedies are memorized, rather than swept away? That _is_ new.

“Here’s Royal,” he says when they reach the street their hotel is on. “Shall we head for the room?“

B nods, dumping the remains of his fruity drink into a nearby rubbish bin. "Yeah."

The country-French frills and ruffles of their hotel room feel strange after being out in the Quarter, the creamy rug almost obscene. L shimmies out of his less-than-clean clothes and slips into one of the complimentary robes. "Show me the drawing?” he asks, tightening the cloth belt around his skinny waist. B’s already fishing around in his bag for the sketchbook.

“That’s her. Nirae."

L studies the outstretched book, his lips quirking at the odd franken-creature, with its tattered wings and stitched-up grin. It looks like a children’s toy gone wrong.

"And she talks to you? What does she say?”

* * *

 

“God, it’s…conversational. In a fucked up way. She acts like we’re old friends, or some shit.  She asks what I’m drawing. She talks about…my eyes. Like she knows,” B runs a hand through his curls, “Well, of course she knows, right? ”

_Why wouldn’t she know if she was something my mind created?_

Lawliet draws up his knees on the bed, looking pensive and almost L-like, his eyes on B. It simultaneously makes B’s skin crawl and his shoulders relax. _Because, yeah, in the past, we solved my mysteries before._

 _Or tried to, didn’t we?_ B hasn’t thought about their first case in New York in a while, but it softens him just enough to settle down on the bed next to the detective he doesn’t fully trust.

“Did you find out what she wants? Perhaps she has some kind of information. About you?”

“You don’t think it’s just….something not real?” B winces a little at how small his voice sounds, like the ten-year old terrified of murder still alive within him. _There’s another fucking surprise._ Lawliet takes his hand, shaking his head slightly.

“I don’t know what to think, yet.”

“Okay. That’s okay. I trust you,” _god, and hasn’t it been months since I said that to Lawliet?_

B leans in for a kiss, any other expression of gratitude seems too overwhelming to put into words. _Would I have said something to him, back then?_ The thought catches him by surprise as he pulls away from the brief kiss, something still holding Lawliet back.

 _What could I have said?_ B doesn’t remember what it was like to use words rather than lips, touch, to show what it is he means. _Maybe the words aren’t even there anymore_.

 _But he’s still here._ He studies Lawliet for a brief moment before looking away, “I don’t know what to think either.”

* * *

Believing in B’s visions – which L does, having years of proof on their validity – requires acknowledgement of something strange and supernatural. L doesn’t like that aspect of things, doesn’t like to look at it too hard, but has long held on to the thought that there must be _some_ rational explanation for B’s abilities. Science, after all, gave explanation for what had previously been mere superstition.

He doesn’t worry that it’s madness. He worries that B might, at times, think it such.

And while part of him is concerned at this new weight and specificity to B’s visions, another is curious. An opportunity for more insight into how the visions function – into how B acquired them, even  – has his investigative instincts bristling. He almost imagines the hum of a computer starting up, though there’s none in the room at the moment.

B’s investigative instincts, however, are decidedly dormant. He can tell from the way B wants to brush past the experience in the Voodoo shop, dismiss it as something ‘not real.’

_The dates that he sees are real. There’s no good reason to believe that the rest of it isn’t, either._

But L doesn’t push the matter. They came here for a holiday, and for B, that no doubt means some time off from the visions that have tormented him for most of his life.

_Save it._

L rolls back on the pillows and stretches his toes, his fingers idling clutching at B’s wrist. Fatigue settles over him like a pleasant mist, so different from the way he usually experiences it, as a crushing weight, hands trying to claw, drag him under. B slips out of his clothes and joins L under the covers, and for now their naked skin is a source of warmth and comfort.

“Tired?” L settles his fingers into the grooves of B’s ribcage, gusting the words gently into his ear. He could sleep or not sleep, and be content either way.

“Mhm.” B throws his leg over L’s, tangling their limbs together. “Crashing from those sugary drinks.”

“Me too.”

B’s head rests on his chest, fingers flicking against his hip in what L knows is probably the same rhythm as his heartbeat. It’s soft and steady as the rain starting up outside – a realization that floats to him just as he sinks into sleep.

* * *

**March 24, 2000**

B blinks away the soft haven of sleep first, rolling instinctively towards the warmth of Lawliet’s body. Despite the humidity outside, it’s chilled in their luxurious suite from the artificial cold of the room.

He shuffles upwards, studying Lawliet’s skin when finally softened with sleep. So unlike the usual grey fervor of his skin, even after he’s been passed out for ten hours or so.

_‘Christ, don’t you ever get tired of it? Oh right, that’s what the fucking drugs are for. ’_

The words are his own, and they really are just memories this time, only heard in his own mind. Even then, it’s too quiet to shut them out. Listening to the memories is a penance he deserves. _The last fight. Christ. Please let it be the last one that’s that bad._

L hadn’t liked hearing his ’ _working habits’_ brought up that way, had clammed up while coldly demanding B speak his mind. Like they were strangers in Vegas again. B digs his nails into his hand, forcing himself to remember.

_‘You never fucking deal with your shit, Lawliet. Everything’s just another fix so you can get on with being L.’_

Yeah, that was a bad thing to say, but still not enough to slice through the mask. But B had been so completely _finished_ , exhausted from the blood of the Jericho case that anything sharp enough to get the job done was already waiting on his tongue.

_‘I mean I didn’t come home to see you fucking suffocate yourself in casework to avoid talking about a rape case from six fucking years ago. This isn’t doing shit, the drugs aren’t doing shit, and I can’t do shit all for you unless you—’_

That’s when it had all become screaming, from both of them, because Lawliet was right, what the fuck could someone like B do for him any day? And then shit was being thrown at him thrown past him and a finger pointed, accusing him of being the cause of this.

_“Do it. Get out. I dare you.”_

Just like that, B went numb and quiet and tired again, giving himself up to what he deserved. _Well fuck, what would losing him be if I’d already lost him?_

‘ _Guess I will then.’_

 _But I didn’t see how right I was._ L had crumbled under those words, leaving the shivering, desperate Lawliet of six years ago, only this time his brokenness left him begging B to stay in everything but his words.

 _“You can’t go. You can’t. You can’t.”_ Hands around his wrists, vice like and desperate, _“I can’t— what is it you want? I can’t do that anymore I just.”_

 _‘Shh. Shh. Just shut up okay. We gotta get away from all this. It’s killing you.’_ Lawliet high was painful, Lawliet broken was unbearable.

_And I did that. Fuck._

B wants to reach for Lawliet’s slack wrist, tender and safe on the bed, but the memory of him clutching and scrabbling along B’s spine is too much to think about.

_I should have known how much it really was like that fucking case. I shouldn’t have hurt him because that’s what—_

_That’s what I promised I would never do when I left - - - and what if he, what if he–_

Just as the panic starts to rise up in B’s chest, Lawliet’s eyes flicker open, gentle at first, and then slightly alarmed.

“Uh. Good morning,” B arranges his face into something that he hopes looks easy going, happy, knowing that the moment before has already betrayed him slightly.

* * *

 

The odd flicker of shifting expressions on B’s face snaps L straight out of sleep. _What is it? Nightmares? Visions? That Nirae-thing?_ The concern surely shows on his face, because B forces a smile that’s a little too tight to be genuine.

“Alright?” L gently scrapes his fingers from B’s elbow to his wrist, not entirely sure he wants to know what had B looking so pensive and fraught first thing in the morning.

B nods and falls over him, his hair tickling the side of L’s face. “Yeah, it is.” But there’s the slightest crack in his words. Not a crack that says _open me up, dig harder_ , but one looking to be soothed, sealed over.

“Your nose is freezing.” L manages a laugh, brushing his fingers over the planes of B’s cheekbones and finds them similarly icy.

“Warm me up.” He nudges his face into the crook of L’s neck and clutches at him with something that might be withheld desperation.

L inhales deeply, using the force of his exhale to roll them both over so that his weight is pressed into B’s chest, his thigh pressing between B’s legs and finding him half-hard. He squeezes B tight as he can, kissing him slow and deep, relishing the familiar, smoke-tinged taste of his lips and tongue. B’s fingers flutter and trace an unsteady trail down his spine, moans humming deep in the back of his throat.

“Better?” L murmurs against his cheek, quickly licking the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck, yes.” B stretches cat-like beneath him, then hoists his legs to wrap them around L’s hips, pressing his pelvis against L’s now more-than-obvious erection. “You’re warm.”

There’s a slight wonderment to that last proclamation, but L decides not to dwell on it, absorbed in the soft texture of B’s skin, such a contrast to his sharp, hard bones. A strangeling knot builds in the back of his throat as he kisses B harder – and if he were to name the knot? Call it desire, call it dependency. _Call it love._ Or don’t call it at all, just kiss and move and touch until the feeling is drowned out in feeling.

* * *

B rocks slightly, letting the slow pickup of Lawliet’s heartbeat drag him back to calm. And it is slow, gentle like it never is at Marylebone. Or perhaps like it only ever was once there, in the fevered nervousness of the first time. He clutches at Lawliet tighter, mouthing carefully at the skin of his neck while Lawliet shivers slightly.

It’s like Lawliet _unfurls_ when they get this close, his face alive with expressions of soft familiarity, impassioned concentration, even gentleness. B wants to stop kissing, stop touching for once, let spill all the reasons why he’s terrified – but what good would that do?

 _Ruin what we’ve got and drag up things we’d rather forget?_ Not to mention it’s not as if Lawliet would talk, anyways. He instead runs his hands up and down the side of Lawliet’s ribcage, as if by touch alone he could keep Lawliet close and warm like he so seldom is.

He catches Lawliet’s coal eyes for a heart-stopping moment, almost feeling as if they both might ask something, then dips his head to Lawliet’s chest, suckling at his hard nipple, thumbing the other gently.

“That feel good?”

“Mmm, yeah, yeah,” Lawliet’s hands crawl into his loose fitting boxers, squeeze his ass gently. The lazy touches continue until the nervous energy in B starts to slowly dissipate. _I haven’t been here enough to watch him, to know when he goes over the edge. To know when it’s too much._

_If I can just find a way to keep Lawliet near, keep him from falling back into the drugs and the detective work and L, maybe I can stop him from falling apart._

_Maybe you’re the reason he falls apart–_ a nasty thought from six years ago, causing him to dig his head into Lawliet’s shoulder, even as he thrusts towards him temptingly. It’s too familiar, this questioning himself through Lawliet’s touch, and yet, there has to be something that’s changed, that’s different here.

 _But are we so different?_ The cases swallow B whole too, and what gets spit up on the other end sometimes isn’t pretty. _It’s the same with L, isn’t it?_

 _Then maybe I do have to understand._ That thought seems to begin and end with a fierce kiss, burning up the fear of a moment prior at last.

* * *

 

It seemed as if they might bathe in the soft haze of slow kisses and touches for the whole morning, but in time B’s mouth grows more urgent, his teeth nipping at L’s lower lip before sucking at his tongue and moaning throatily.

“Mmm.” L gently pulls back and stares down into B’s face, brushing curly hair off his forehead. His eyes are still glittering with questions that L knows he never properly answers. _But I can’t do it. Don’t know how._ He only knows to pour all of himself into every fingerprint he leaves on B’s skin. And so he peels off both of their boxers and pushes the sheets aside – they’ll be warm soon enough – parting B’s legs and running his fingers over his legs, from the insteps of his feet all the way up to the sharp jut of his hipbones. B’s erection lies thick against his belly, moisture glistening at the tip, and with a curious lack of deliberation L grips him in hand, maneuvering so that their cock heads are pressed together, as if kissing.

He has a vague memory of doing something similar that first summer they were together, only thirteen years old and so randy they could barely see straight. Half of what they did in bed (or in the forest, or in the stables, or in the bath…) was so new and strange that they’d end up in laughing hysterics. But there had been a simplicity to it, too – a certainty that felt right and unshakable.

L knows that certainty is what B wants back. L also knows and accepts that it will never be. _Only wish you would accept it, too._

The world is much too fucked for anything like certainty.

He grips their cocks with both hands, now, sliding his shaft against B’s and watching the pupils of his eyes grow darker. B’s hips jerk and more fluid leaks out, coating L’s fingertips. He stops what he’s doing just to lick them off, one by one.

“I’ll get the lube."

He always knows exactly where it is, and is back on the bed within seconds, fingers curled into B’s ass and scissoring in slow circles, knowing his body a fair bit better than even his own, by now. Once B is loose and panting, L presses both hands into his shoulders and squeezes into him with a groan, flattening his weight against B’s chest once his cock is fully worked inside of him.

"Just want to stay here and go slow,” he whisper-sighs against B’s neck, arms tightening around him. “Stay warm.”

* * *

“Yeah, we can do that,”

 _As if we could stay this way._ The chill thought slips in even as he mumbles incoherently into Lawliet’s shoulder, the warmth suffusing from his stomach to the tip of his head. Lawliet’s hair is nestled close to his face, his forehead on B’s collarbone as he moves gently, achingly slow.

B runs his fingers through a strand of hair, sucking on it while massaging Lawliet’s scalp. There’s something familiar about the taste, the slowness of it, some echo of a memory that B has long since buried. He reaches for the thread of it now, even as Lawliet’s shallow thrusts stoke the fire in his groin.

 _But that’s tied up in all the other memories_ , “Shit,” he breathes as Lawliet moves just a little faster, his breath gusting over B’s ear. B flickers his eyes shut, for once, not seeing memory or monster, just feeling the length of Lawliet within him.

“M’here,” Lawliet mumbles, breath ragged as B starts to pick up rhythm with him. There’s something careful in his movements, something that almost asks for B for once, rather than B begging for him.

“Yeah, yeah–” he tilts Lawliet’s head up to look him in the eyes, black and strange, running his hands down Lawliet’s spine as he watches the pleasure ratchet up within him, “S’okay, don’t worry. You can relax. I’m here.”

Lawliet’s eyes soften then, his grip going slack and gentle a moment before his eyes squeeze shut, gasping and digging his fingers into B’s chest. It’s so sudden and unexpected that it’s all B can do to clutch him tightly through the orgasm, shuddering at the feeling of Lawliet’s come filling him, overwhelming him.

The last stutter of his hips sends B over the edge a moment later. They don’t speak, and for once, B doesn’t even think, dropping the thread of memory that seemed so essential a moment before. There’s nothing but this moment, the weight of Lawliet’s breath on top of him, the air conditioning cooling the sweat on their skin.

They shower just as gently, almost tender in the lull of the morning. There’s nothing hanging in the air except where to go to breakfast, for once. Being able to breathe easy is strange, even when they’d left St. Petersburg behind there was still a weight to being with, a withheld question of if  and when they’d ever really talk

It feels good to let go of that question, if only for a moment. B isn’t sure whether to savor it or whether it will suffocate him.

They decide on the highly recommended Cafe Du Monde, despite the short wait, they are soon seated in the shade with cafe au lait rich with chicory and thick fried dough piled with powdered sugar. The beignets taste luxurious and light at once, and B can’t help his smile at the way the sugar finds its way into Lawliet’s slightly long hair.

“Can see why they’re a bit of an attraction, huh?”

“I wonder if Watari can get these brought in to London…or perhaps made somewhere, I can imagine they’re only this good fresh,” Lawliet licks the powdered sugar off the edges of his fingers, almost like icing on a strawberry shortcake–

B smiles as the thread finally comes back to him, remembering the last time they’d fucked slow and certain.

Like the first time, wasn’t it? Didn’t think we’d get anything like that back. But maybe I wasn’t hopeful enough.

Even after all of that.

And in the glow of the high morning sun, no shadow of monster on the skyline nor case on the edge of their fingertips, B wants to reach for this moment, to clutch it close and breathe it in for as long as he can. He takes Lawliet’s hand, instead. That’ll have to be be enough.

 


	2. March 30, 2000

****

****

_New Orleans as Tourists [do not edit or repost]_

 

**March 20, 2000**

It’s only a week before L grows tired of being a tourist. 

They took the river ferry tour, then explored the Garden District and Magazine Street, with its posh shops and art galleries that turned B’s mouth down to a sneer. They wandered through museums and the aquarium, watched some swans in City Park, and rode the street cars to the end of their lines. In addition to beignets, L discovered snowballs, shaved ice drenched in fruity syrup, and southern pralines, which were so sweet that even he could only manage one or two before feeling light-headed. 

All of that was fine, but it was the black, beating heart of the true city – the one barely hidden beneath the tourist veneer – that L was truly drawn to. They fell into the habit of eating a late lunch at Coop’s, a local’s favorite where the sweet tea was sweet enough for L’s palate, and a bulldog named Ozzy Osborne slept under the bar. When the city pulled up her skirts at night, they wandered until they found one of several hole-in-the-wall bars, where candles dripped and some of the best jazz musicians L had ever heard performed. L didn’t even care about jazz, really, but he liked the loose, smoky atmosphere, the pulse of mysteries and ghost stories, swelling in the notes.

A few times, when he and B walked home late at night, a clutch of three to five young men would slump in the shadows, looking out at them with sharp, calculating eyes, looking to sell, score, or steal. The men always left them alone, street-smart enough to know when they’d met someone their match, but L knew there were others out there who weren’t so lucky. 

Without necessarily meaning to, L memorized the most crime-ridden parts of the city: Little Woods, Basin Street Projects, the 8th and 9th wards.

And as for living in a hotel – well, it was fine when it was intended as command central, with monitors set up everywhere and Watari in the background, keeping the gears well-oiled. But when it was meant to be a substitute home, a domestic nest of sorts, it felt too small and too sterile. To removed from the heart of things. 

Which is why after their morning shower together on March 30th, L squeaks steam off the mirror with the edge of his towel and meets B’s eyes in the glass. “Maybe we should look for a place to rent.” 

* * *

B feels a little nervy despite the warm rain of the drying shower, despite the gentle, almost dull rhythm of the past few days. He hadn’t slept well, kept waking up to a shadow that looked like a skeletal doll with wings. 

He’d let it go for hours, just listening to Lawliet’s breath rise and fall. Focusing on his name, barely visible in the dark.  _ L Lawliet.  _ It wasn’t until he heard a whisper outside of his head, of the name ‘ _ L Lawliet’  _  in that same raspy, feminine voice.

He’d sat straight up in bed, whirling around. Seeing nothing. Nirae, whoever she was, had been there. 

B wants to be sure of it. 

“A place to rent?” his thoughts catch up with Lawliet’s question a moment later.  _ Why? Is he really that attached to just…touring? _ B had thought Lawliet had seemed bored, especially nearing the end of the week. Not that he knew what to do with that.

_ Been bored too.  _ But they haven’t fought either, so that was something. 

“Thought you might want to stick around a little longer.”

“But you want to stick around?” he says it a little sharply, enough that Lawliet hesitates in his glance, “I mean, are you having a good time?”

* * *

_ Good time? _

A ripple of irritation heats up L’s face, masked by a quick snatch to the floor as he grabs his least wrinkled pair of jeans – sorely in need of a washing, without Watari to tend to such matters. He drops the towel from his waist and starts to wriggle into them, still gnawing over B’s question.  _ Good time? _ What does L even consider a good time? Eating, fucking, and solving a case, then solving another case, and another. B should know that more than anyone.  _ But then I’m not enough for him as I am, not anymore.  _

The certainty of the thought – the memories of that terrible night in Marylebone – sends a muted surge of panic through him, but it isn’t quite enough to blot out his mounting irritation.  _ Did what he wanted, let him take us away on holiday, and now it’s not enough?  _ And yeah, L was having a good time, in a sense. He was able to tolerate it, even enjoy parts of it. Most days he even skipped the Adderall, finding that it made him nostalgic for the hyper-focused tasks that it always accompanied. 

“Weird question,” he finally mutters, roughly finger-combing his damp locks in a way that he knows betrays his annoyance. “Have I done anything to indicate I’m not having a good time?” 

B’s eyes meet his in the mirror, then skip away. “Thought you were getting bored. Maybe that’s just me.” The odd sigh that follows makes L pause, knowing the there’s more to come. B grips the edge of the counter and stares into the sink. “Saw Nirae again last night.” 

“Here?” L blurts out inelegantly, and B nods. “And she spoke again?” 

“Well, sort of.” He meets L’s eyes in the mirror again. “Said your name right as I was looking at it.” 

A chill rattles at the back of L’s teeth, and he has no idea, really, what to do with this information. “Why now?” he wonders aloud, his sour mood vanished. “Why here?”

* * *

 

“God, I don’t know,” B tilts his head back, his annoyance giving way to a more curious frustration.  _ How could there really be answers to this? _

He settles onto the dresser, watching Lawliet run his fingers over his lips like he’s tasting the edge of a case. It prickles at the edges of B’s frayed nerves, seeing those tell-tale signs of L’s  _ main _ addiction. He glances at his red eyes in the mirror.

_ Or maybe I’m just thinking about it the wrong way. _ From the way Lawliet was acting, he seemed more alive than the past few days, which felt like a fuzzy, if pleasant autopilot. _ Maybe a case is what we need. God knows learning  _ something _ about why I am that way would be— _ B doesn’t quite finish that thought, not knowing quite why it scares him so much. He nibbles at his knuckles.

_ Right then. Where do we start? _

“Was thinking I might go back to the voodoo shop, actually—see if I can talk to that woman. I mean you’re probably right and it was bullshit. But maybe she knows something,” B glances sidelong at Lawliet.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“Nah, you’ve gotta find a place for us, right?” he tries to smile, and it actually doesn’t feel forced.  _ So that’s something, at least _ .

“Sounds good. You’ll be alright?”

“Course I will, sweetheart. What’s another monster?” B says it with more confidence then he feels as he reaches for his jacket, but there’s still ease in the way he slips the knife into his pocket, just in case.  _ It’ll be fine. _

_ After all, whatever she is, she has me to deal with now. _

* * *

L would prefer to accompany B to the Voodoo shop – not because he thinks B needs backup (lord knows B can manage solo just fine), but because L hates to miss out on an interrogation. But since this particular interrogation involves B’s visions, which are really his alone, L gamely stays behind while B sets out for Bourbon Street.  

After munching on some room service croissants, he phones a local agency about sublets and rentals and gets a recording indicating that he ought to stop by in person if he wants a list of updated listings. He hangs up with a slight frown and reluctantly puts his shoes on. The sayings are true about everything moving a little slower in the South.

The overly-cool lobby of the Hotel Monteleone is crowded with people checking out before the weekend hits. Already, L has learned that there are two kinds of tourists who visit New Orleans. The business folk, who hit the city from Monday through Thursday for the conference circuit, and the partiers, who start showing up on Thursday night and lurch out of town come  Monday morning, looking like unwashed zombies. Glancing into the Carousel Bar on his way out, L is surprised to see it entirely empty for once, with the bartender studying the liquor bottles for a stock check. L recognizes him as the same man who served them their first night in town.

The carousel is turned off, unmoving, and the bartender doesn’t look up from his task until L loudly clears his throat.

“Oh, sorry, sir, but we don’t open until eleven.” The man gives him a polite, awkward smile.

“I don’t need a drink.” L hops into a barstool, ignoring the man’s understated look of panic at this breach of protocol. “I wanted to ask you about those tourists who disappeared. You mentioned them on the first night I was in here, about a week ago.”

The bartender shelves the bottle of Bombay gin he was studying and wipes his hands on his black apron. “I don’t know much about them beyond rumors and such.” He studies L’s face with unabashed curiosity. “What did you want to ask me?”

“Do you know what there names were?”

The man shakes his head, but from his wrinkled brow L can tell that he’s decided to give L what information he can. Most bystanders are eager to share what they know – it makes them feel special, like they’re involved in something of significance. A little blip of excitement in their otherwise dull lives. “I don’t remember much, except that they were from Colorado. Late twenties or early thirties. It seemed like they were here to get wild.”

L slouches in his barstool, the posture bringing a sense of comfort and confidence with it. “And what sort of things do couples do here if they really want to get wild?”

“Score some coke or ecstasy, maybe. Check out one of the sex clubs.” The bartender keeps looking over L’s shoulder at the door, as if expecting to get busted at any moment.

“What sex clubs? That Larry Flynt one on Bourbon?”

“Those are for drunks and looky-loos,” the bartender scoffs, clearly prideful on the subject. “Serious swingers come here for Cosette’s, just over on Chartres. It’s about a hundred bucks at the door. Maybe sixty or eighty, for couples who are hot.”

L eyes the caddy of cherries and orange slices, but refrains from dipping into it. “I see. So, I take it that the couple asked you about sex clubs, and you recommended they check out Cosette’s.”

The bartender blinks and curls his fingers around the edge of the bar, his adam’s apple jumping as he searches for an answer. “No…?” His voice lifts at the end, turning it into a question.

“Because I don’t see why you would mention sex clubs and Cosette’s specifically, otherwise.” Now L does help himself to a cherry, popping it into his mouth before quickly fingering up a second and third one.

“I’ve never heard of anything bad happening to someone at Cosette’s,” the bartender finally says, his tone gravely quiet now.

“And yet a couple who went there is missing.” L deposits his cherry stems into a crystal ashtray and flashes the bartender a smile before sliding out of his chair. “Thank you, you’ve been quite helpful.”

It isn’t until he’s walking away from the carousel that the taste of cherries goes bitter in the back of his throat, turning to lead in his stomach. It’s not as if he can do anything with the information he’s just received. It’s not as if he can do what he does best – being a detective.

* * *

 

The clouds hang thick and soupy over the narrow streets when B leaves for  _ Marie Laveau’s _ . B takes no note, winding past the intricate balconies and paint-chipped shutters of Dumaine street to return to the Voodoo shop. The streets are mostly empty, save for a few people milling about.  _ Feels like a storm in the air. _

He hesitates for a moment when he arrives under the sign, skin crawling with anticipation– _ just treat it like the usual. An interrogation. _

“Looking for a more authentic New Orleans experience, I perceive?” a man leaning against the brick smiles, stretching the scar just above his lip, “Have you considered a tour on the living history of the Vampiric Voodoo Cult?”

_ Authentic my ass,  _ B grimaces as the man shoves a pamphlet at him,  _ looks like a con to me _ . More than the usual one. He gives it a quick scan while the man leers and prattles.  _ Looks like he’s a fair hand at pickpocketing too. Professional. _

He’s considering whether or not to fight his instincts to scope the guy out when he notices a flash of movement above him, catches a gust below that might seem like a breeze to those who can’t see the bone-wings beating.

_ Oh god. There she is. _ Against his better judgement, he breaks off into a run, barely mumbling an apology at the con-man. She slows to a lazy glide, angling in towards St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. The sky is starting to open up, the tourists usually clustered about the entrance now thinned out. The graveyard is nearly empty, which makes it easy to find his way to an old grave near the back, the red  _ XXX  _ graffiti looking more bloody as it becomes painted with rain.

“You came to see me,” she rasps with a bitter laugh behind it, “How sweet, Beyond.”

B catches his breath.  _ Christ. This isn’t the kind of interrogation I pictured _ . He whispers, despite the fact that no one is around to see him speak to shadows, “What do you want?”

“He speaks!” she leers delightedly, “Well, it certainly has been a while, hasn’t it,  _ Whispering Shit. _ ”

B’s blood goes icy, almost hearing the name in his mother’s voice, the images flooding back a moment later. It’s like he’s eight years old and  _ there are monsters in my room– no, they look like you, _ the line between reality, dream, and memory a much more frantic blur when someone screams at him to  _ calm down _ .

“Mum?” he chokes, the sound of it shocking him back to reality.  _ She – I saw her when I lived with Mum. Oh god.  _ His stomach lurches, the memories mixing with the reality. He puts his hand onto the wet concrete of the grave to steady himself.  _ Shit. Fuck. Shit.  _

“Oh that’s good,” she says, squinting at him like she’s putting it all together, “What is it they usually say about little boys. You have your mother’s eyes. Hah.”

_ Why now? Why am I losing it like when I was a kid again? What the fuck is happening? _

“You’re not her. You’re not,” B says it with more conviction than he feels.

“Your mother?” her birdlike eyes blink before she starts laughing again, “That’s rich. Oh that’s stupid. Remember, Beyond, I am a God of Death. A shinigami.”

B only barely remembers that word, remembers being terrified to speak it allowed. _ The first whispers. And now they’re back.  _

_ Back to tell me– what? _

“Is that what I am?” he doesn’t need to try to whisper, the sound barely comes, “A god of death?”

She laughs, laughs and the echoes of memory sound like his mother’s sobs, he claps his shaking hands over his ears and she smiles with the eyes he didn’t want to remember. The graveyard feels like it’s melting out from under him, her face blending with the hard rain. He barely feels how cold it is, soaked through his jacket already.

“It’s hard to say what you are, Beyond. But you wear my Eyes, and from what I’ve seen, make far more use of them. I wonder what will happen when–” her voice falters, with what sounds like fear. Or maybe it’s just B’s heart that’s racing, his feet simultaneously paralyzed and itching to run, scream, hide like he would when he was a child, the eyes that would follow him around the room. And his mother screaming for him to  _ just act fucking normal there’s nothing there _

_ there’s nothing _

B squeezes his eyes shut, it’s all too much to remember, not here, not now, not ever.  _ But there’s something there, isn’t there? _

_ is there? _

“When what?” he manages to mumble, hearing whispers, the hiss, the rustle of wings. It’s too late to connect the sounds with something that might be reality. 

When his eyes flicker open to meet hers again, she’s already but a blur in the clouded sky. He tries to take a step, but can’t manage it, staggering against the scarred grave, seeing eyes and hearing screams. 

* * *

 

A walk through the Quarter in search of a flat to rent ends without success, and L back at the hotel room to bathe in the lifeless odor of industrial carpet, curtains, and cleaning products. What should linger unpleasantly in his nasal passages is both familiar and soothing, as much as the chair’s upholstery is, smooth beneath his bare feet when he hitches them up to settle into a crouch.

For several minutes he gazes out the window down to the streets below, still wet from a furious but brief rainstorm. He watches for B’s leather jacket and quick-but-easy gait, but the more time that passes without sight of him, the more L’s eyes flicker toward the closet where the safe is, with his secured mobile phone locked inside.

It would take less than a minute to call Watari or Lenny, and from there less than an hour for them to gather all the details on the missing tourists, plus a background report on that sex club, Cosette’s. They could fax it in code to the concierge. He could pick it up while running out for tea-time beignets and café au lait’s. All of which is probably a terrible idea because what can he do with the information, really, except use it in pursuit of more?

He taps his fingers restlessly on the table top and looks to the windows again. Still no B.

He’s about to kneel on the carpet in front of the safe when the door to their room flies open and B staggers inside, his hair damp and springy from the rain, and his eyes wide and hollowed-out, like he’s just been given a hell of a psychic wallop.

“You alright?” L reaches for him instinctively, his mobile phone completely forgotten. B is quite obviously _ not _ alright. “What happened?” It comes out more insistent that he intended, but B doesn’t seem to notice.

“She knew about my mother.” His voice is alarmingly faraway.

“Who? The woman in the Voodoo shop?”

B looks at him as if he’s seeing him for the first time, the fog clearing from his vision. “Nirae.” He shakes his head, water droplets raining down. “Sorry. Seeing a lot I haven’t remembered in a while.”

The yellow haze of nostalgia creeps through L’s veins, warming his blood even as he swallows and nods his head, serious as can be. “S'okay.” He reaches for B’s fingers and squeezes them. “I’m here.”

* * *

 

_ Yeah, just calm down. It’s just you and Lawliet. _ The old whispers start to fade from his ears, the frustration and fear gradually subsiding to the edges of his skin. Getting like this on a case doesn’t happen as often as it used to, but it’s inconvenient at best.  _ Fucking dangerous at worst.  _

_ But we’re not on a case. _ And it  _ is _ nice, having Lawliet’s arm draped around him, feeling out his pulse in a way that chases the blood-tint of his visions away.  _ Familiar. Wish I had this on cases more often.  _

“I trust you,” he touches his forehead gently to Lawliet’s shoulder, believing it, for once.  _ He’s there and is always going to be there. _

“Chased her to the cemetery, when I caught sight of her in front of Laveau’s. I don’t…know if I’ve seen her before. I feel like I might have, when I was a kid. You know I saw a lot of things then,” he tries not to close his eyes too long.  _ Don’t want to keep seeing them now.  _

“And then you remember I saw her in St. Petersburg a few times. For A’s case. But she didn’t say anything then.”

“She spoke more?”

“Yeah,” B focuses on the pleasant sensation of Lawliet’s long fingers, carding through his hair, “We had a whole fucking conversation, almost.”

“What was speaking with her like?” Lawliet’s gaze when he asks after B’s visions is very particular– a gentle searching, much softer than his hungry curiosity when chasing a case. 

“Creepy as shit. I don’t know what to think,” B leans back into Lawliet’s arm, annoyed with his incapacitation, but enjoying having Lawliet’s undivided attention, “Thing is, she reminds me of A, at her worst, when she was always trying to mess with me. Or maybe of my mother. I don’t  _ know _ . I got caught up in seeing memories when she called me something mum used to scream at me.” 

“She mentioned my eyes though. Called them hers.”

* * *

 

B is still upset, no doubt, but his breath seems to have slowed, color returning to his skin to make his eyes look less hollowed out. Good. L scoots forward on the bed and locks his knees at B’s hips, his arms coming overtop his shoulders and pressing close to his chest, chin nestled in the crook of B’s neck. He catches sight of himself in the mirror above the dresser and thinks – half-amused, half-not – that he looks rather like a human straightjacket. 

“How could you have her eyes? She  _ has  _ eyes,” he remarks, remembering the sketch of the patchwork, skeletal creature. “Little beady bird eyes, doesn’t she?“ 

B nods against his cheek. “Yeah. I think she might have been talking about the visions and the death dates. She knew your real name, after all.” He swallows audibly and leans into L’s chest, tugging at the wrists criss-crossed over his sterum as if requesting a tighter grip. “They weren’t just beady, had a bit of a red tint to them." 

L feels them rock together on the waves of the same breath. "You used to think your eyes were red. I had to assure you that they were hazel, remember?" 

”‘Course I do.“ B studies the end of L’s thumb, flicking absently at a hangnail. "Have you ever heard of the word ‘shinigami?’ It might mean something like ‘God of Death’ in Japanese." 

"Yeah, more or less. Death God, Death Spirit. Entities that lure humans toward their death.” L thinks back to the two times he went to Japan on casework, the particular challenges that came with it. Speaking anything less than near-perfect Japanese, as well as having a thorough understanding of cultural norms, had been crucial for his success. “I think one of the first appearances of the word was in the plays of Chikamatsu Monzaemon, which often focused on double-suicides. But some interpret it as just metaphor – an idea that captures how transient life can be. Why?” He nudges B’s shoulder lightly. “Did she call herself a shinigami?”

B nods, just as L knew he would. Why bring the matter up, otherwise? _ My boyfriend not only walks with death figuratively, but literally, too. And Death is a giant bird in a patchwork skirt. _ L would laugh at the absurdity – if only the absurdity didn’t in fact ground everything in a way that might actually make sense. 

“Maybe she is trying to mess with you.”  _ Like A,  maybe she can’t stop herself. _ “But it sounds as if she’s actually trying to tell you something important, too. 

* * *

“Christ, I don’t know,” he slips out of Lawliet’s grip reluctantly, changing into some dry clothes, “I don’t understand how she knows so much about me.”

_ How do I know she doesn’t just know because I know? But did I know about shinigami before her? _ The word feels familiar like a whisper in the dark. B studies his choice of shirt in the mirror only to be frowned at by his blood-red eyes. He turns away, slipping back into Lawliet’s grip. At least the visions aren’t coming back. 

_ Can I really trust anything I see?  _ The dates are the only thing he trusts. That and the red eyes.  _ Constant reminder that I’m not… _

_ Not human? Part god? _ The thought makes B’s throat tighten in a way that even Lawliet’s pulse isn’t helping with.

“Can we get outside a moment? Need some air,” B’s voice sounds strangled even to his own ears. Lawliet just nods, helps him to his feet. 

“Where do you want to go?”

“By the river, maybe. S’close?”

“Not too far. Do you want to get a cab?”

“No, just,” he hesitates. It’s selfish and he doesn’t think he needs it, but he asks because he knows Lawliet won’t refuse him, “Hold on to me.”

“Alright.”

Outside in the clearing skies of the Quarter, B keeps expecting ghosts to pop out of every alleyway. Despite his elevated heartbeat, half leaning-on Lawliet’s shoulder as they track towards the Mississipi, nothing rears its ugly head. No shinigami or any other death-shapes.

B knows the patterns of his visions, thinks of most of them in two categories: monster and memory. The monsters come less frequently than when he was a child, their appearance a wink on the horizon these days.  

But when he was a child they came with cold sweats, screams and nightmares that chased him no matter where he ran to. It wasn’t till he stopped running, settled in to the Wammy’s house, and rode out the worse of it with Lawliet’s hand in his, that those visions started to calm for a few years.  _ Yeah, there were a few cases with images that lingered, and my mum from time to time. _ But it wasn’t till the Lant Street, and when he’d taken to the road afterwards that they came back with a fucking  _ vengeance _ . 

B knows his patterns by now, and it took all of those five years apart to learn them. The memories come when he’s fucked up, or done something fucked up, or both.  _ Normal part of the job. _ Something he accepts. The monsters, they slip in and out like old ghosts, or in and out of dreams.

_ Nothing as fucking clear as this. _

_ So what is she? An old ghost– or—?  _  B isn’t as ready to accept the alternative as Lawliet is. But they settle together on the bank, the smell of swamp and greenery floating over the river. 

“Thanks,” he rubs his hands together in the chill breeze, jamming one of them into his pocket and catching hold of something. He tugs it out, almost wanting to smile at the attempt at theatrics.  _ The Arcane History Collaborative, give me a break. After all of this shit..  _

He half-laughs as he smooths it out and shows it to Lawliet, “Some conman was trying to sell me on this in front of Laveau’s.”

“Seems well-reputed,” Lawliet smirks dryly, but does give it a second look, “Well, they are making a transparent effort to appear so.”

“Yeah,” B leans into Lawliet, suddenly missing the dull lightness of the past week, “So what do you say, want to pretend at tourism some more, go on a vampire tour? How did the house hunting go?”

* * *

 

There’s a subtle note of desperation in B’s voice that isn’t lost on L. When B wants to talk, he talks, but monsters who remind him of both A and his mother?  _ Maybe not that, not too much yet _ . L takes the hint, but he doesn’t stop holding B’s hand, squeezing it involuntarily when a big river barge chugs by, stirring the waters brown and murky.

"No luck at the leasing agent’s, but the woman I spoke with said that a lot of people looking for a short-term sublet just put a sign in their yard or on their balcony. We could go out and look, later.” L risks a small smile. “Unless you’d rather a vampire tour or a visit to this Arcane History place.” He casts a suspicious eye on the crumpled pamphlet.

Amongst the buskers with guitars and clarinets, most of whom have undeniable talent, L has noticed the high level of grifters wandering the quarter, laying out their tarot decks and fake church-based charities ( _ 'meant to benefit wayward teen girls,’ _ most emphasize). The high level of tourism, paired with the history and superstitious air of New Orleans, makes it a spot ripe with targets. Their second night L had nearly been cornered by a man with a bright red alcoholic’s nose who was trying to sell poetry. “I’m the state poet laureate!” he had bellowed, shaking a smearily-printed broadside at L. “Surprised you ain’t heard of me!”  

So the Arcane History Collaborative is probably no different from the Voodoo Museum or the Cemetery tours – buoyed by just enough history and claptrap to seem somewhat legitimate. They might be a good distraction for B because they have the flush of normalcy; regular people skirting closer to the things that scare them, but remaining safe in the process, buffeted by the exchange of money for services rendered.

“Might be an interesting diversion,” he says, passing the crumpled brochure back to B. The bartender’s words about the missing tourists and the sex club on Chartres Street float back into his brain, already sketching a hazy map of the club’s approximate location.  _ Not that kind of diversion _ . Something with the flush of normalcy.

“Sure. Yeah, let’s walk around and look for a flat.” B clambers to his feet and brushes the dry bits of grass off his jeans, offering both his hand and a small smile.

L smiles back, even though he can tell that B isn’t looking at him but over his shoulder, one eye on the troubled, darkening waters of the Mississippi.

* * *

 

_ The Arcane History Collaborative [do not edit or repost] _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pictures taken from our actual reasearch trip to New Orleans :') Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please do leave a comment with your thoughts!


	3. April 8, 2000

**April 8, 2000**

There’s a mix of excitement and trepidation churning in B’s gut when they drop their suitcases in the old French Quarter house. It’s not quite the plantation homes of the Garden district, thank god, but it’s trying to be one, complete with dramatic staircase in the vestibule and ornate carvings along the wall. The panelling is cheap though, and the wallpaper is slightly peeling in a way that’s a little haunting.

_ Could get comfortable here. _ B can’t help but feel like it suits them. It has a small kitchen, a large bedroom, and a large study too.  _ And no ghosts so far.  _

None since the graveyard, at least, which has given him plenty of time and space to think about it.  _ Not that I’ve been trying to.  _

_ Just focusing on us is enough.  _ But it hasn’t been bad, at least. For now. He drops his duffel bag on the edge of the study, taking a stretch.

On the desk is a small, leather-bound black book with characters etched in silver that B doesn’t recognize.  _ Huh. I guess the previous renters left it behind? _ He’s about to flip through it, detective instincts hard to ignore, when a loud bump sounds from the stairs.

“Bloody hell,” Lawliet is standing in a mess of papers and personal affects, his smaller suitcase having apparently overturned in carrying the additional bags sent by Wammy. B sniggers a little. 

“Moving problems, huh?”

Lawliet just shakes his head, but he does smile a little bit as he starts piling the clothes back inside. 

B picks up a bold-looking business card from the mess of notebooks and assorted pill-bottles.  _ Exclusive adult lounge… _ he snorts, “Since when were you looking into a sex club? Bored of the jazz already?”

* * *

L typically sneers at the idea of fate or luck, but ever since he asked the bartender about the missing tourists, more info has dropped into his lap without him even lifting a finger to seek it out. An unprompted email from Lenny with an attached missing person’s report, and then the bartender, catching him on his way to the elevator and passing along the card to Cosette’s.

Staring at it in B’s hand, he distractedly notes that the woman’s silhouette could be holding a hand mirror, or…a detective’s magnifying glass.

“The bartender slipped it to me this morning,” he says, tugging on the ends of his hair.

“Really?” B doesn’t look particularly concerned, but yet still a bit doubtful.

L shrugs, reminds himself that nothing he’s saying is a lie, not exactly. “Guess he failed to notice that we’re an item.”

“Well, yeah – we’re at item, but we’re also  _ adults _ .” B flashes him a bit of a cheeky smile as he hands the business card back and bends over to pick up a few of L’s scattered notebooks. “Maybe we ought to check it out.”

L chews on the inside of his lip and crouches down to the scratched and worn stairs, sweeping some of his toiletries into the leather travel case they fell out of. He doesn’t have to pretend to hesitate. The more he chases this, the more he won’t want to stop.  _ Won’t be able to. _ “Sure.” The pill bottles pass through his hands and disappear into the case. “Also, it’s apparently quite a bit cheaper to get in if you happen to be attractive.” He purses his mouth together a little. “And you definitely qualify.”

B snorts but looks pleased, handing over the last of L’s things and leaning in for a quick kiss. “Shit, we both do.”

“Mhmm.” L concurs with the incline of his head, closing his eyes tight to kiss him back.

* * *

 

B breaks away from the kiss with a smile but a strange nervousness churning in him.  _ Not the first time that Lawliet has wanted to do something a little out there but– with someone else? _

_ I mean, I did suggest it.  _ He nibbles at his knuckles, wondering what he’s gotten them into. But Lawliet has a small smile playing at his lips,  _ so I guess keeping us entertained can’t be a bad thing.  _

B ignores the way his hackles raise a little at the thought of Lawliet with someone else.  _ He’ll be with me. It’s fine, just. Sex. Just like always. _

Lawliet lets go of his hand and resumes putting together the suitcase, already heading off to the other room, “I’ll get set up in the bedroom first.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll just take out the important shit and then handle that next–” B glances back over his shoulder at Lawliet as he heads back to the study, which is why when he turns around the scene in the room hits him like a ton of bricks.

Nirae, looking grim and grinning in the dust-filtered sunlight turns to him as he arrives. But she’s not alone. In front of her is a boy– or a  _ ghost,  _ one that B has never seen before. Deathly pale, snow-white hair and gray-black eyes, staring up at Nirae as if transfixed. 

_ He’s got no death date. What the fuck–  _ B backs away slowly, getting control of his panic.

“I didn’t expect this at all,” Nirae rasps, and the boy flinches visibly before locking eyes with B, terrified. 

“Shit– Lawliet!” he calls, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth before bolting in to the other room. Lawliet flinches when he enters, alarm in his eyes, “Sorry – I just. Saw Nirae. And someone else, a kid. Never seen him before in my life.”

* * *

L nearly drops the pile of notebook papers he’s organizing, the papers frozen between his fingers as he studies B’s wide-eyed expression. “A kid?” his tongue tumbles around the word. “As in a child?” B nods fervently, and it’s enough for L to drop the papers on the bed and follow him out into the hallway and into the study.

“No one’s here,” he observes, though he does check behind the door and poke his head in the closet, which holds nothing more than the owner’s belongings, carefully taped up in cardboard boxes.

“Where’s the kid?” B’s voice is stiff with uncertainty, his body slouched against the doorframe.

L doesn’t state the obvious, _ there is no kid _ , but slides the room’s single window shut. “Gone now, it would seem.”

_ ‘What the fuck,’ _ B mutters in a barely-there breath, raking his fingers through his mass of curly hair.

“What’d he look like?” L uses the calmest version of his detective’s voice, his features schooled to show nothing but curiosity.

“Small. Really pale and practically white-haired. He didn’t have a death date.”

L feels his cheek twitch. It doesn’t sound like the coloring of an ordinary human, and no death date – just like Nirae. Which means that the boy must be one of B’s visions…which means that B’s visions are getting worse.

“There’s was a notebook on the desk and he took it. A black notebook.” B slings the desk drawer open and reveals nothing more than a handful of paperclips and pencil shavings. He sweeps even those aside before glancing up at L, his brow wrinkled. “Yeah.” He slides the desk drawer shut, slowly, then jams his hands into his pockets. “Sorry I’m like this.”

L manages a smile that feels a bit on the wan side. “Perhaps it was a ghost? The rental sign  _ had _ in fact advertised the property as haunted, but as far as L knew, that was a little gimmick that the leasing and sales agents used. “Anyway–” he gives B’s shoulder a squeeze “–there’s certainly nothing to apologize for.”

* * *

 

“Yeah, I. I know,” he murmers, eyes still fixed on where the book used to be.  _ It was there, wasn’t it?  _

“We can stay somewhere else if we have to,” Lawliet’s words are quiet and gentle, but he’s off-balance, B knows. 

“No, it’s. Fine. I just– I wish.” he lets the words die. I _ t’s a fucking stupid thing, to wish, isn’t it?  _

_ It’s not as if you could have gotten this far without the death dates at least _ . B has accepted they come hand in hand with the visions, at least And the visions– they come with the casework.  _ Pretty sure the more I look, the worse it gets. _

He turns up the corner of his mouth at Lawliet, “I’m alright.”

_ I think.  _

It’s not as if the cases are getting any easier.  _ It’s not like they’re going anywhere, after this fairytale stay in a haunted fucking house is over _ . 

B finally shakes off the comfort of Lawliet’s hand on his shoulder, reaching in the bags to take out his sketchbook. He hesitates before putting it away, flipping through the past few days. It’s all gentle tourist shit, or a few vivid sketches of Nirae. The contrast is jarring, sending an adrenaline shot through his veins. 

Before that, notes on cases, a few profile sketches and the occasional, scant monster-turned memory. Seems comparatively normal. B nibbles at his knuckles.

_ Christ, it’s not as if I don’t miss them. _

 

_ Cosette’s [do not edit or repost] _

At 10pm the Quarter is still hazy from a passing thunderstorm, the neon lights and gas lamps bleeding together in an unsettling rainbow of synthetic colour. L always enjoyed the wet earth-and-pine smell that fresh rain brought to Winchester, and even came to appreciate the odor of damp concrete in London. But rain in New Orleans tends to make the air smell dirtier rather than cleaner. Bourbon Street, in particular, runs with a fetid, liquid mixture of rain, booze, and urine that has him doging puddles. 

Saturday night in the Quarter is a circus that L would normally rather avoid, but the way B jumps at every little sound in their new rented house makes the crowd worth it. L’s face betrays no concern when B stops at one of the daquiri bars and gets a frozen hurricane in a massive to-go cup, gulping it so fast that his face soon screws up with a headache. 

“Mind if I help you with that?” L pries the cup from B’s hand and takes a few sips, the taste of rum strong beneath the explosion of fruity flavors. It tastes like the synthetic rainbow reflected in everyone’s eyes and brings a cheap wave of giddiness with it, enough to make L push B against an alley wall for a hot, sticky kiss. 

But soon they’re away from Bourbon Street and on the quieter side of the Quarter, where couples stroll with ice-cream cones, and restuarants ring with the laughter of drunken diners. The address for Cosette’s is at well-kept building with an antique dealer in the shopfront below. Only the sound of faint music and conversation coming from the balcony above gives away that there’s another business here.

“Guess this is the place.” B wipes off the back of his mouth and tosses his empty cup into a nearby rubbish bin. He’s wearing his most battered and punkrock leather jacket, but the jeans and teeshirt beneath are clean and fairly new. L went to the trouble of raiding B’s wardrobe for a pair of black trousers much tighter than he prefers, a snug black tee, and a wine-coloured canvas jacket with artful rips on the seams. They strike a certain level of fashionable, but L has no idea what one wears to an ‘adult lounge.‘ 

“Mmm,” L hums, tipping back on his heels. “You sure you want to go up?” He chases down B’s gaze and holds it. “I’m certainly not looking for anything here, but I will admit to a certain curiosity.” 

* * *

“Come on, Lawli, let’s live a little bit,” B smirks at the alliteration, his brain pleasantly fuzzed from the rum.  _ Make that a bit dizzy _ , but it’s a nice feeling. Better than fear and good as long as Lawliet’s warmth is close by. 

Cosette’s has a posh, elegant waiting area that’s  _ crowded _ . But the throng is of a certain type. Early middle aged men, predominantly. Slightly past their prime, and wearing outfits that try to go for ‘casually rumpled’, but most are ill-fitting and sloppy.There are a few older women with loud laughs and red lipstick that brings out the small wrinkles on the sides of their mouth. A few of the men B starts mentally profiling before realizing what he’s doing. The buzz of the liquor pushes a sharp, hard laugh out of his lips. 

“What’s funny?” Lawliet asks, but before he can answer, the man at the rope calls them over.

“Cover is twenty,” he nods, and Lawliet reaches into his pocket and hands over the bills, winking at B. 

Inside, the demographic is a different story. Younger couples (or perhaps newly-made couples?) pass by in skimpy, fashionable clothes, or at the very least, tight-fitting. A few have already paired off into dark corners, but most are milling about the center, where an almost completely naked woman holding two huge, pink feather wings. They take a seat in one of the back couches, attracting a few glances.

“See, told you we qualify. You look fucking fantastic in those pants.”

“I’m going to grab us some drinks,” Lawliet slips out from under B’s arm.  _ Suits me just fine, sweetheart. _ B smirks as he watches the way his jeans hug Lawliet’s ass. Music starts to color the room, a slinky, jazz like tune.

_ Of course, a burlesque show to warm things up, huh? _

The dancer is a  _ sight _ to watch though, using the feathers to expose and conceal her body in a way that has B’s mouth drier than he expects. She’s a twirling, sashaying dream with her cropped platinum blonde hair, body like a gymnast but with a slight softness to it. 

_ Wonder how long it takes to make that look good. _

B has stripped a handful of times for work, once or twice for Lawliet when it seemed like a good idea. But those feathers are a completely different level, made almost more seductive by their impracticality. She drops him a wink just before she flares open the wings, her nipples sparkling with gemstones. 

_ She knows how to put personality into it. _ And it’s making B curious. Almost enough not to miss Lawliet’s warmth for the duration of the dance.  _ What’s taking him so long? _

* * *

 

Weaving his way to the bar, L eyeballs the low-slung velvet sofas, the candles burning in crystal votives, the faux-Rococo trim and scarlet wall paper. All the couples are heterosexual, midtwenties-to-thirties, largely white and middle-class in appearance, and definitely ‘looking to get wild.’ Not unlike the missing tourists, Ethan Rush and Karla Martinez. A few patrons linger alone – two men and one woman, nursing drinks and studying the crowd – and L notes their features and build. They could very well be security laying low, or they might simply be lonely, looking to score. 

As for the rest of it, it all brings a mild sneer to his face. The exposed pink flesh and stuttering neon lights of the strip clubs on Bourbon Street are honest, at least, and in his experience, places like this are usually more depraved, beneath all the lace and the trimmings. 

The bar is set back far enough in the room that L doesn’t have to shout, thankfully, to be heard over the pulsing music. “Two rum and cokes.” He lifts two fingers at the bartender, who, unlike the man at the carousel bar, barely makes eye contact as he efficiently measures out the rum. 

“Ten.” The drinks slide across the bar to L’s fingers, squeezing a twenty dollar bill. 

L smiles and passes over the money. “Keep the change.” 

The bartender nods his thanks and stuffs the cash in the till, wiping his knuckles off on the towel tucked into his belt. 

“I was wondering if I could ask you something.” L taps his glass to get the man’s attention, all at once realizing how much better B would be at this. He knows how to get anyone’s attention, and L hasn’t had to work like this in years, going ‘round from place to place, scrounging for scraps of information. 

_ But you’re not working. You’re just making conversation. Being nosy.  _

“Yes?” The man looks at him expectantly. Wearily. He’s attractive – in a place like this he’d have to be – and probably gets hit on all the time. 

“Some friends of mine came here about two weeks ago. Ethan Rush and Karla Martinez, are their names.” L gives him a worried smile. “They went, well, a bit  _ missing _ from New Orleans not long after visiting this place, and I’m trying to find out what they did here that night. If they talked to anyone or left with anyone.” 

The bartender’s jaw stiffens. “You a cop?” 

L laughs a little. “Bloody hell, no.” Turning up the accent works, sometimes. “I’m in town on business and told Ethan’s mum I’d keep an eye out. She’s worried sick, as you might imagine.” 

“I’m sorry, sir.” Though he doesn’t sound sorry at all – the man’s expression has barely changed during the course of the whole conversation. “Cosette’s management prides itself on discretion.”

“‘Course you do.” L gives him a nod and pivots around, his face heating up even though he’s already counted the security cameras in the room and knows that film doesn’t give a crap about discretion in any way, shape, or form. There’s always a way to find answers. Always. 

He sucks on an ice cube as he pushes his way through the throng and back to B, who looks glassy-eyed and mesmerized by the dancer with the pink feathers. Everyone else is equally impressed, judging by the riot of applause that fills the room when she spins and bows beneath the golden lights. 

“Guess I missed quite a show.” L pushes the rum and coke into B’s hand and drops into the sofa beside him. 

* * *

B sips the rum and coke slowly, still feeling a little heady but comfortable, “Yeah, she was damn good. Way better than I could do and I’m no slouch.”

“She is a professional,” Lawliet says distantly, “I wonder if that’s her boss.”

The dancer, now dressed in a lacy shrug over a tiny, shimmery dress that somehow manages to be loose and skintight at the same time, is speaking with a pale but good-looking man in the corner.

“Or maybe her boyfriend.”

No sooner has she glanced over her shoulder that she notices B’s stare, and gives him a devilish smile. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but the tiniest hint of a thrill bubbles up in his stomach.  _ So yeah, she’s good off the floor too. _

She follows the trail of his gaze, sashaying across the floor towards them, “Hi there” 

She’s a lot more earnest and innocent than B expects. _ Which is hot in its own right, I suppose. _

“Hey, nice work up there. That was unreal. You made that look effortless.”

“Oh thank you,” she strikes a balance between coy and inviting, blushing behind gloves with lace to match her jacket, “I’m guessing you’ve seen a show before?”

“I’m familiar with the skill set, you could say,” he smirks, taking another sip of the rum and coke. On a whim, he gestures at the couch, and she takes a seat on Lawliet’s side. 

“You can call me, Cherry,” she smiles, though B reads the name  _ Judith West  _ above her cropped blond hair with a smirk, “And you both are?”

“Liam,” the name sends an icy shock through B’s pleasant haze.  _ The name he would have taken for the Lant Street case. _

_ But those fuckers just called his ‘kid’.  Why the hell is he thinking about Lant now, of all times? _

A nudge to B’s side shakes him out of his reverie, “Uh, Brian.”

“Liam and Brian. Foreign sweethearts?”

He pastes on an easy smile a beat before remembering where that alias was from.  _ Shit. _

“Yeah. Just tourists. So uh. You been dancing here long?”

* * *

 

L tries to listen to the chat-chat between B and ‘Cherry,’ the rum pooling in his stomach, golden and warm, but two details stick in his head – the way he felt B flinch at the name  _ Liam _ , and the alias B offered up,  _ Brian _ . 

_ Hasn’t used that one since we were kids, and I –  _

The warmth in his stomach shatters into ice as the memory crawls over him.  _ I was ready to tell them that my name was Liam.  _ But they never did ask his name. It was easier for them to do what they did if he didn’t have a name. If he was a nobody. 

Gripping his glass hard, he drains the rest of his drink in one swallow, wincing at the taste. Cherry notices and laughs, her fingernails poking his knee playfully. “That kind of a night, is it?” 

“Yeah,” he rasps, staring at her intently through the tangled fringe of his hair. “What are you having?” He knows enough of social niceties to know that when an attractive woman takes a seat with you, you offer to buy her a drink. 

She folds her hands into her lap and looks at B, then back to L. “Whatever you boys are having looks good to me.” 

L flags a waitress down this time, putting in an order for another round of rum and cokes before settling back into his seat. At some point, B moved to the other side of the sofa to light a cigarette for Cherry, and now she’s sandwiched between them, tipped back into the cushions while both he and B are perched forward, swiveled toward her as if she’s the most fascinating woman in the room. Truthfully, she probably is. 

_ And so what if she is?  _ L isn’t entirely sure what’s happening, only that he and B have shifted into that mode where they play off one another instinctively, like jazz musicians. Casework mode.  _ Did he figure out that I wanted to come here to investigate?  _

“This is a bit silly, but when I saw you two sitting over here I thought you might be in a band or something. Especially when I heard your accents.” Cherry laughs in embarrassment, though it only manages to be charming.

B lifts his eyebrows and meets L’s gaze. “He’s the one with an accent.” The spark in B’s eyes is merriment or mania. L isn’t sure which. 

“Yeah, but you’re the one with the leather jacket.” Cherry strokes his sleeve admiringly. 

Maybe it’s just the rum, but all at once, the air in the room seems much warmer.

* * *

B sips the drink slowly, trying not to let the last one catch up to him too quickly, “So, full-time burlesque? Want to be a backup dancer for our imaginary band?”

He winces internally.  _ Either sounded like a come-on or something I’d do for work. Both.  _ But she’s leaning in to him, mascara-lined eyes wide and interested.  _ Yeah, I guess those skills can be useful in other ways. _

“Oh I think I’ll stick to being a headliner,” she giggles a little, “Sometimes I volunteer for a research collaborative here. I like the history of ‘Orleans, not just the burlesque. Though pleasure does have its place here.”

“I’ll drink to that, sweetheart.”  _ Collaborative– _ the word sticks in B’s mind, feeling like an unpleasant memory is stuck up in it. It goes down with the burn of the rum. 

“Do you want something stronger? I know the right people.”

“Nah, I don’t do well with that shit–” he tries to put on an easy smile.  _ Come on, we’re not making any arrests tonight.  _ And she does look, well, gorgeous and soft in a way that’s definitely interesting to B.  _ Seems interesting to Lawliet as well. _

“Do you partake?” Lawliet eyes her almost hungrily–  _ is he checking her out? _

“Not often, but sometimes tourists like to. You two seem– different somehow, though.”

“Oh that’s certainly just the accent,” Lawliet states with a dry smirk, and B has to laugh. Cherry does too, her full lips wide and smiling.  _ Wonder what they taste like– there’s an errant thought. _

“I don’t often do this but– would you both be interested in coming back to my apartment? There are rooms here but I’m not really in that type of work.”

“Keep business and pleasure separate, huh?” B winks, and Lawliet inclines his head.  _ So he’s tempted, huh? _

_ Yeah, this isn’t what I expected but – what the hell, why not? _ B meets Lawliet’s eye questioningly. He half-shrugs, “I’ll get us a hotel room, if you don’t mind. But that sounds fun.”

_ It does, doesn’t it. _ He smirks at Lawliet, who looks flushed in a way that B is used to by now–  _ or is that the alcohol?  _ It doesn’t seem important. There’s him, there’s Lawliet and something to hold Lawliet’s interest for the night.  _ So that’s enough.  _

“Let’s get out of here, shall we?”

* * *

As they leave, the prospect of what’s to come is intriguing, to say the least, but L is more intent on discovering what it is that Cherry really wants with them. It’s more than sex – he can see that by the nervous way she tugs down her dress when she heads for the door, her eyes briefly locking on the man she was talking to earlier. Boss, boyfriend – either way, someone Cherry is likely taking instructions from. L tries to get a good look at the man’s features before he follows B and Cherry out the exit, but the man is shielded by the low lights and veil of cigarette smoke.

“Where’re you boys staying?” She asks when they’re out on the street, slinging her purse over a slim shoulder.

“We’re never anywhere for long.” L jams one hand in his pocket but allows the other to swing loose, brushing up against hers. “But for tonight, this ought to do.” He nods at the quaint boutique hotel across the street, nearly swallowed up by garish gift shops on either side.

The clerk at reception balks at first, insisting that they’re all booked for the weekend. L shoves one-hundred dollar bills at her until she finds a vacancy, catching how Cherry’s eyes flutter at the sight of the money, then relax. At some point, B slipped his leather jacket over her even though the evening is anything but cool. 

“Is there room service?” L asks the clerk, a twenty still perched between his fingers.

“No, sir, but the room has a mini-bar." 

"That’ll do.”

The room has ridiculously high ceilings as well, showing off the exposed brick and monochrome linens, made even darker by the low lighting. If it weren’t so airy it might have the feel of a dungeon, which seems appropriate for a threesome – certainly moreso than the French country frills of the Hotel Monteleone, or the scuffed, comfortable rooms of their new sublet. 

L raids the mini bar and opens a bottle of coke, taking three long swallows before grabbing a packet of M&Ms, too. He feels warm and sweaty and heart-racy, but not necessarily aroused. Cherry and B are already cozied up at the foot of the bed, exchanging teasing kisses, and even for L it’s hard to tell whether B’s really enjoying himself or if this is just another job for him. Maybe the line gets blurred for B, too.  _ These are the things we do _ . At least Cherry isn’t Paul, from their old hackers case. And she’s definitely not Silas.

_ Don’t think of that name, for fucks sake. _

But his hands are already shaking when he pries out the two condoms he keeps in his wallet, sending a scattering of loose change across the dresser top. A few worn-down tablets are in the mix, too. L knows by sight that they’re dexies, not Adderall, but that doesn’t stop him from tossing both into his mouth along with a handful of M&Ms, chewing the whole mess down and chasing it with another slug of cola.

“You gonna join us or what?” B calls out with a laugh. Cherry’s strutting across the carpet and repeating her strip-tease from earlier, beckoning at L with her index finger instead of a feather. 

“I really want to see you two make out.” She wags her finger at him and winks, as if the thought of two men kissing is somehow shocking. As if L hasn’t done dozens of more intimate things to B in their time together.

“You’ll see more than that.”

L drops his jacket on top of Cherry’s purse – to make it easier to look through, later – and approaches the end of the bed, finally close enough to capture B’s mouth in a fierce and heady kiss. 

* * *

There’s something familiar and unsettling about the frantic energy of Lawliet’s kiss.  _ Feels like L– but shit, this isn’t a case. We’re just fucking around.  _ Lawliet’s heartbeat is strange and ragged, but it doesn’t seem right to stop now, under Cherry ’s hungry gaze. For a fleeting moment, her lips look stitched and strange - - but the drag of Lawliet’s tongue drags B back to the present.

Lawliet has his eyes low and hooded as he strips B’s jacket to the floor, guides B’s hands to tug off his shirt and sucks at his fingertips.  _ God, that’s good. _

_ All part of the show. _ He winks at Cherry.  _ Yeah, that’s a little fun. _

“Oh my god, from this angle you two look like twins,” she giggles –  _ but how much am I like L, really? _

“Are those lacy? Ooh.” Cherry runs a hand along the edge of B’s ass.

“He’s pretty, isn’t he? Have you ever had two men inside you?” Lawliet cocks his head, then settles back to unzip B’s pants, leaving the black silk panties on display.

“Oh–” she’s more taken aback than B expected, “No, but– I’ve done it both ways.”

“Would you like to?”

“Alright, um. Just go slow.” she shrugs off her bra, having left the dress on the floor long before.

“Brian can do that. Just prep her,” Lawliet has a particular commanding aloofness towards her.  _ Like in one of those pornos he’s always watching. _

“Your wish is my command, sweetheart,” B slips off Cherry’s thong, squeezing her breasts gently and running a finger down her slick clit. He works her up to moaning easily, her sharp perfume reminding him a little of A. Lawliet produces the lube with the barest hint of a smile.  _ Voyeur. _

Being under Lawliet’s gaze has always dragged B back to the salt and burn of reality, whether by arousal or by adoration.  _ But this…there’s something about his eyes tonight. Too focused, almost. _ The gaze is still arousing, especially three fingers deep with Cherry arching her shimmering back and whimpering like a sex kitten.

_ But the way he’s watching– it scares me a little. _

“Alright, that’s enough. Cherry, could you ride Brian for me?” Lawliet’s smile is lazy and cheap. _ Doesn’t mean it’s not good. _

“Mhm!” she breathes out, stroking B’s cock gently as he lies down.

“Hold on. Nice and slow.”

“Oh that’s good - -” she lowers herself slowly onto B’s cock, the warmth of her sending a twitch to his hips. He smirks at Lawliet, who grabs his wrist and folds Cherry gently forward.

_ Let’s do this, sweetheart.   _

* * *

Though the whole point of a threesome is to introduce a new, unknown quantity, L keeps his attention focused almost entirely on B, regarding Cherry as little more than a prop, a sex toy they’ve borrowed for the night. Such disregard for another human might rouse a twitch of guilt, ordinarily, but he feels nothing of the sort as he maneuvers her body, bending it at the waist, sliding his fingers in where B’s had previously been and moving them with the focus of an adept musician. 

The room is soon filled with the B’s groans and Cherry’s breathy whimpers, but except for issuing the occasional direction, L remains stone silent – even as he buries himself into Cherry and grips her shoulders hard, peering over them and down into B’s flushed face. He notes the extraordinary pressure on his cock, the degree of friction, the knocking of his own knees against B’s. It’s amazing how coldly absorbing sex can be when he’s in this state, both completely immersive and distant at once, as if he’s been split in two. The part of him that matters most isn’t here at all, having retreated to some place safe and untouchable. 

_ Mostly safe.  _

Cherry inclines her head and tries to capture L’s mouth in a kiss. Her lips are warm and soft, and the tender touch of them sends a shock through L that almost has him shoving her away. He plays it off as rough sex, yanking her head back by gripping the short turf of her hair. “Let’s switch it up,” he rasps, and she nods mindlessly, willing to go along with whatever he suggests by now. 

They finish with Cherry on her back, B fucking her while L fucks B, and by the time everyone’s had at least one orgasm they’re all sweaty and exhausted, tangled up in the messy sheets. L is fatigued but his mind is numbly buzzing, his hand gripping B’s harder than usual – trying to return to himself, afraid to return to himself.

“You alright?” B whispers. Cherry is curled up on his other side, her mascara smeared around her closed eyes, a trace of a blissful smile on her lips. 

“Yes.” There’s an odd, metallic taste in the back of L’s throat. “I think I’ll wash up, though.” 

He scoops up his jacket on the way to the bathroom, managing to grab Cherry’s purse at the same time. The face in the bathroom mirror looks both younger and older than he’d like it to. He makes a point not to look at it and peels off the condom, wadding it up and dropping it into the otherwise empty rubbish bin. 

_ A lot of effort just to look through one purse.  _

* * *

A chill runs over B’s skin in Lawliet’s absence, despite the heat of Cherry’s deepening breath next to him. B bites at his knuckles, his brain fuzzy with residual alcohol and the backlash of the orgasm.  _ Something’s up and I can’t quite –  _

He flinches visibly when the towering form of Nirae materializes through the wall.  _ Jesus shit.  _ Cherry mumbles, but rolls over, already partially asleep. 

“So, murderers bedding murderers again.” she glances over to the bathroom.

“He’s not a fucking murderer,” he hisses, before he can catch his tongue. The anger is thick and hot in his chest.

“No, but you could call her one. Certainly two dead because of her. What’s her name? Better write that one down,” Nirae chokes out a cackle, “Oh but that didn’t work the way I expected at all, did it? Dying is such a goddamn mess, Beyond, you wouldn’t believe it at all.”

B claps his hands over his ears, squeezes his eyes shut, memories starting to worm their way back. A pair of wide eyes, watching him– too wide and then too bleary, struggling to stay open amid a thrashing body.

_ Oh god – not those _ . 

He forces his eyes open to meet Nirae’s horrible red-tinted eyes. His fingernails dig grooves into his palm but still,  _ still  _ she’s there. He glances back to Cherry a moment, her lips looking almost bloody red against the white sheets.  _ Judith West. January 16, 2021.  _

“What do you see, Beyond?”

_ Oh Jesus Christ. _ B’s fist swings towards the face that’s mere inches from his, swings through nothing but air. He pauses, frozen for a moment by her smile, then bolts straight through Nirae towards the bathroom.  __

_ Oh god I need not to be seeing this right now, Jesus _ . He takes a breath and slowly opens the door. 

“Lawliet?”

* * *

L hops up on the bathroom counter, barely noticing how cold the marble is against his skin as he carefully unzips Cherry’s purse. It’s stylish looking, but a no-name brand beginning to fray around the zipper – nothing fancy, certainly, and so over-stuffed that part of the contents spill out into the sink. L fishes through mascara, several lipsticks, a comb, and a mini-bottle of hair spray, setting them aside and focusing on a small plastic wallet.

The inside holds almost two hundred dollars in cash, no credit cards, and a Louisiana State driver’s license featuring a picture of Cherry with slightly longer, bobbed hair.  _ Dulcinea Dobbs,  _ a name which somehow sounds even more fake than ‘Cherry,’ and reminds L of B’s alliterative pseudonyms. L studies the driver’s license, holding it up to the light and determining that it’s a well-made fake. 

_ What’s your real name then, Cherry? _  L tugs at his hair, irritated with its length. B will have seen her name, of course, but asking at this point will also mean revealing that he’s casually investigating what happened to the missing tourists. 

_ And that’s just fine. _ He’s been tip-toeing around too much as it is – any longer and he’ll only make things worse. 

Returning to the purse’s contents, L unfolds a piece of paper printed with a fancy scrolled font that he recognizes.  _ The Arcane History Collaborative _ . It’s a flier for a lecture by Malik Fürstenberg, and judging by the photograph on the flier, Malik has adopted the style of either a magician or an animal trainer. The pure pomp and arrogance of his face has L scowling. Malik  _ might _ be the man that Cherry was talking to at Cosette’s, though it had been too dark to know for certain. 

_ An Evening with Malik Furstenberg [do not edit or repost] _

The last thing L finds in the sink is a clamshell-shaped pill case. He opens it, expecting to find birth control pills or perhaps a bit of cocaine, but it’s rattling with brightly coloured tablets that look like candy. Each one is printed with a different image: crowns, smiley-faces, butterflies, stars, and others. 

_ Club drugs.  _ Too many for mere personal use. L shakes out a few of them and stashes them under the soap dish. 

Before he refills Cherry’s purse, he feels all along it’s inner-lining, patting the seams. His stomach drops like a stone when he feels something small and rectangular, recognizing what it is at once.  _ A bug.  _

Once his metal of his mind catches up with his instincts, he relaxes, assured that neither he nor B said anything revealing about themselves since meeting Cherry. The fact that the bug is so well-hidden, too, gives L pause. When Cherry came into their room she carelessly dropped her purse into the corner. Someone who wanted to record them would have put it on the nightstand, closer to the bed.

_ So maybe it’s you who’s being bugged, Cherry. _

He jumps slightly when he hears the bathroom door creak open an inch or two, followed by B whispering his name. Putting the purse aside, he jumps off the counter and eases the door open all the way, motioning for B to come inside.

* * *

B stumbles in to the hard tile of the floor, instinctively reaching for Lawliet’s free hand, head still spinning and eyes full of stitch-lipped smiles. Lawliet squeezes tightly and touches his neck, before dropping the purse in his hands outside the door, shutting it tight, and turning on the bathtub.    
  
It almost seems like normal behaviour to B.  _ He doesn’t think we should take a bath…now? _

“Something happen?” Lawliet returns to his side, lacing their fingers together again.

“Give me a minute– think I’m…fine.”

“The visions? Was it Nirae?” Lawliet grips his hand tighter, assessing his reactions carefully.

“Yeah.” 

He takes a few breaths, taking in the array of odds and ends on the bathmat. The scene is familiar to B in a way that picks up his heart–  _ crime scene sorting– _ the contents of Cherry’s purse classified in neat piles that he knows well from coming back to Marylebone at the wrong times.  _ What’s he doing with this? Does he suspect her? _

“I’m investigating Cherry for the disappearance of two tourists who frequented  _ Cosette’s _ not long ago,” Lawliet replies to the question B doesn’t ask, “She’s been bugged, too, hence the precautions.”

B’s blood runs cold.  _ Did he say something about that to me? About the murders? He must have.  _ It seems natural that this would transition into casework, the rhythm felt that way all evening. Even the sex was cheap and perfunctory, that natural transition into information gathering.  _ I knew it all along…. _

_ Didn’t I? _

“Right– um. She was pretty suspicious, I thought,” B’s heart pounds in his throat.  _ I had thought that but… _

_ How the fuck did Nirae know that she was a murderer? If she knows – did I know that? _

He opens his mouth to ask, then closes it again.  _ Fuck. It sounds like I’m losing it. _ And he can tell, now, by the sharp narrowing of Lawliet’s eyes, that he’s sky-high, not just on the case. He blinks against the image of Lawliet’s thrashing body again, and then his pulse cools.  _ Working instincts.  _ He glances around him, taking in the details of the room with the jackrabbit of Lawliet’s pulse.

“So what’s our next move?”  he stares back into Lawliet’s wide eyes, tries to smile. 

_ If it’s a case we were always after, fine. That’s what Nirae wants. What I want. _

_ As long as it stops the monsters from coming. _

* * *

B’s gaze is wheeling in a manner that L doesn’t miss, his cheeks pale under the harsh bathroom lighting. He expected some kind of protest to the idea of launching an investigation in the middle of their holiday, too, but so far B’s nodding along, as if he knew this was coming. 

_ He knows me too well, I guess _ . 

“We’ll start with these.” L unhooks his finger from the corner of his mouth and lifts up the edge of the soap dish, showing the colourful pills stashed beneath. “Club drugs from Cherry’s purse. Ecstasy.” B blinks in question. “Might be able to find out what distributor she uses, based on the designs stamped on them. And then there’s the question of who she’s working for…”

The sound of the water rushing from the bathtub tap helps bring L’s pulse from out of the rafters. He gestures with a nod at the closed door. “I’m not sure that Cherry knows about the bug in her purse. It was hidden inside the lining, and she left her purse rather far from the bed for someone trying to record us.”

“Who put it there, then?” 

“Maybe her pimp, boyfriend, or boss. Possibly the man we saw her talking to at Cosette’s, though I didn’t get a good look at him, did you?” 

B shakes his head, and L knows that means he wouldn’t have caught the man’s name, either. Cherry’s on the other hand…

“She had a fake ID with the name ‘Dulcinea Dobbs.’“

B snorts back a small laugh and rakes his fingers through his hair. “It’s Judith West. Her death date is over twenty years from now.” 

L nods.  _ Good.  _ They aren’t a danger to her, and they’re not putting her in danger, either. Not the physical kind, anyway. 

“Another thing. She had one of those Arcane History Collaborative fliers in her purse. They must be the people she volunteers for, and likely a cover for the drug operation she’s involved in.”

“You think the missing tourists might’ve bought bad brownies off her?” 

L smiles. Though he still looks a little wan, B’s as sharp as ever, picking up on L’s rhythm with minimal effort. “That, or something worse happened. The surveillance tapes at Cosette’s might have some answers.” 

“Shall we go after those first, then?”

“No quite.” L shakes his head slowly. “First…I need to get out of here for a few hours, I think.” He nibbles on the end of his finger and locks eyes with B. “I’ll call Q and have her set me up with a GSM transmitter, then come back here and plant it in Cherry’s purse.”

_ Might as well bug her while everyone else is.  _

* * *

“I’ll keep an eye on her then,” though B’s eyes are clear and the sugary smell of Lawliet’s skin is grounding, he suddenly wants to be alone, to try and sort what the  _ hell _ he just fell into. 

“We should get back out there.”

It still doesn’t feel good to let go of Lawliet’s hand, to watch him slip out the door without glancing back.  _ L the detective again.  _

_ We’re both detectives, dumbass. And don’t forget it. _

He collapses on the bed next to Cherry’s sleeping body, pulling the blanket over her bare ankle, still adorned with a jeweled bracelet. Nirae is nowhere to be seen, now.  _ Thank Christ for that.  _

B pulls the covers over himself, trying for the illusion of sleep while his mind runs a mile a minute over the events of the previous evening.  _ It really sounds like a case investigation– I guess it just felt like it was gonna be for fun. _

_ Or maybe that’s what I wanted it to be. _ B shivers and tugs the blankets closer. For the first time since he and Lawliet tackled the Vegas case, there’s a cold knot in his chest that even Lawliet’s warmth couldn’t unravel.  _ Feels like it’s all just getting out of reach. _

_ But I’m still the same, aren’t I? _

_ I still know what’s real, what I am? _

B drags his fingers over the healed scabs on his knuckles and bites at them until blood drips onto the sheets.

 

 


	4. April 9, 2000

There are white, frenzied balls of energy ping-ponging through L’s brain as he mounts the short flight of steps into their sublet, so bright he doesn’t even flip the overhead lights on even though it’s well past midnight and the dark is syrupy-thick. 

_ Ow! Fuck –  _ his thin-soled sneaker comes down hard on something sharp and pointy, skittering away and into the black. He pats the wall until he finds the wall-switch, then blinks in confusion when he spots the offending obstacle just inside the doorway to the study. A small toy robot, just a few inches high and made of hard plastic. 

_ How did you get here.  _ He props the robot onto one of the shelves in the study and regards it with a clinical eye. He doesn’t remember seeing the toy before, but then again, he and B have yet to spend their first night in the sublet. 

But it’s several moments before he turns his back on the study, the nape of his hair ruffled up in a fashion he can only describe as  _ spooked _ . Even though he never gets spooked, not really. 

Deciding that what he needs is a hot bath, he retrieves his mobile phone from the bedroom and dials Q while the tub fills and steam clouds the bathroom mirrors. 

“I can’t believe you held out for this long. I’m impressed.” It’s early morning in London, but Q sounds chipper. “Len and I were taking bets.”

“Almost three weeks.” L dips a toe into the hot water, then slowly lowers his whole body into it, minding that he doesn’t drop the phone. “Lenny emailed me the missing persons report on Ethan Rush and Karla Martinez – without my requesting it, I might add.” L feels it important that he defend himself on this point. 

“Sneaky bitch – she must want to win the bet badly.” Q’s chuckle, though, is laced with affection. “What you need next, boss?” 

L tugs on a strand of his long, dampish hair. “Background check. Birth name is Judith West. Known aliases include ‘Dulcinea Dobbs’ and ‘Cherry.” 

“Sounds like a kinky minx.” 

“Yes, well…” L rolls his eyes to himself. “Background in burlesque dance, early 20s, short blond hair, blue eyes. Possible history of drug use or drug dealing. Also – see if you can find anything on someone named Malik Fürstenberg.”

“Who  _ are _ these people,” Q tsks. “Anyway, I’m on it. Anything else?” 

L starts to file his request for a GSM transmitter only to have Q start to giggle mid-way through his sentence. “Guess I’m a sneaky bitch too, because I already put a transmitter and receiver in the side pocket of your laptop bag. Clean sim card, ready to go.”

His smile feels pained as he stares at the slow drips of water beading and plummeting from the lip of the faucet. “You know me too well.” 

“That I do.” 

“I think that–” His voice breaks off as his scalp prickles at the back of his neck again, his eyes instinctively skipping over to the steam-glazed mirror.

At first he sees nothing, then there’s a sudden movement and it becomes clear: a small, pale form, roughly human in shape. He drops the phone, which tumbles over the edge of the tub and skids toward the toilet, and gropes for it for almost two full seconds before looking up again, only to find the pale shape gone.

“Boss? You there?” Q’s voice sounds tinny, far away. It  _ is _ far away.

L says nothing at first, holding his breath and listening for footsteps, for any human sound, but there’s only the drip of the water. Slowly, he releases the breath in his chest, his lungs burning. 

With quick efficiency, he ends his phone call and dries off, finding the components he needs from his laptop bag, more eager than ever to get back to B. 

On his way out he veers by the study just long enough to look over the shelves. The toy robot is still there, exactly where he left it. 

* * *

 

B doesn’t quite know how he managed to slip off to sleep, but he wakes with Lawliet’s back breathing against his, and his eyes mercifully clear for the moment. He can tell from Lawliet’s pulse that he’s not asleep, and hasn’t slept. He wraps his arms around Lawliet’s slightly chilled bones, the familiar rhythm of casework, post-case work like an old friend.  _ Or ally. _

“You okay?” he mumbles in Lawliet’s ear. He rolls around carefully in B’s grip. When he nods his eyes look shadowed and wide.

“You?”

B buries his head in Lawliet’s neck a moment.  _ Think I am, now. _

_ I wanna believe that. _

He tilts his head, a question in his eyes, at the purse, and Lawliet just nods.  _ So that went alright.  _ Beside them, Cherry stretches exaggeratedly, seeming slightly disappointed when neither B nor L spares her much of a glance.  _ Show’s over, sweetheart. _ B sits up tiredly, and she offers him a smile.

“So what about breakfast?”

B is surprised she has the boldness to suggest it, but they end up at a cafe that serves decent beignets, if nothing special compared to Cafe DuMonde. B keeps one ankle tucked over Lawliet’s to feel out his pulse.

_ Time to feel out the pulse of the case, then. _ He lets a bit of small talk over coffee go before sneaking in a casual question.

“So what’s with this research schtick you’re into?” B studies her like he’s fascinated for a moment, which gets her leaning in, “History of New Orleans, or what?”

“Oh, I work with the Arcane History Collaborative,” her smile has a bit of pride in it.  _ So that’s something to work with. _

“Wait, isn’t that what we had on that brochure?” He laughs carelessly, observing her frown, “Thought that was just tourist crap.”

Her frown turns into a pout.  _ Hook, line and sinker, sweetheart.  _ “It’s a serious research endeavor. We’re interested in documenting the under-researched connections between voodoo and vampirism. It’s very cutting edge and immersive.”

_ Those words sound rehearsed. _ B exchanges a playful glance with Lawliet, seeing if skepticism will convince her to reveal more.

“Look, if you don’t believe me, why don’t you come to the event tonight,” she produces the poster B already knows well from her purse, “I can get you tickets, and you can speak with the head of the research collective personally.”

* * *

 

L concentrates on eating as he listens to B guide Cherry through the Wonderland maze of his interrogation – nuanced and playful enough that she’s none the wiser. Whoever’s listening in on the bug shouldn’t notice anything strange, either. _The familiar script of a convert trying to convince a non-believer…_ _Did Ethan Rush and Karla Martinez have to endure this, too?_

From his tipped-back chair L reaches for rest of B’s last beignet, not particularly hungry but aware that the sugar will help him come down the off-ramp without crashing. 

He’s managed not to roll his eyes at Cherry so far, but it becomes especially difficult when he hears her utter the words ‘voodoo’ and 'vampirism’ in the same breath. He lurches forward in his chair abruptly, almost accidentally batting the silly brochure out of her hand. She reels back, perhaps taking the sudden movement for aggression.

 

“A group researching the connection between voodoo and vampirism – what connection could there possibly be.” There’s no questioning inflection in L’s voice as he rips four packets of sugar into his coffee and gives it a listless stir.  "Voodoo is a spiritual folk magic that blends Catholicism with West African rituals and traditions. Vampires are make believe creatures that are allergic to garlic.“

She sniffs and is momentarily at a loss for words, seeming to stare – in revulsion, surely – when he dredges his finger through a heap of powdered sugar and licks the end of it. Watching, her lips part slightly and her pupils dilate, though they’re sitting on the patio in full sunlight.  _ Not revulsion, then.  _

"The vampires in books are make believe, yes,” she finally says, her tone forcibly calm. “I’m speaking of human vampires, of course." 

"Human vampires,” he repeats tonelessly. “I would ask what those are, but I suppose you’ll suggest that I come to your event if I want the answer to that." 

She tosses back her head, the short cropped hair barely moving, and smiles brightly with her red lips. "Yes, it would be lovely if you came.” Her eyes bounce back to B. “And you too, Brian. After all, if you were interested in Cosette’s, surely you’d be interested in an eclectic history lecture and demonstration?” Her laugh is warm and charming, almost as riveting as B’s when he’s playing a role to the teeth. “Don’t be sticks in the mud  _ now _ , eh?" 

"Welllll…” B lets the word roll in his mouth like syrup.  _ Never act like you want the information you want. In fact, never act like you want anything at all.  _ “You sure you can get us tickets? I don’t wanna pony up for this thing, no offence." 

"Not a problem.” She shrugs a shoulder and picks up her purse, reaching inside. L watches her movements carefully, gratified to see that her fingers never once wrap around the base of the purse strap. In the wee hours of the morning he’d used the hotel room sewing kit to stitch in his own GSM transmitter, choosing the spot he felt was the least noticeable, and yet one that would pick up the broadest range of sound. 

“Here,” she announces, pulling a pen out of her purse and twirling it a bit, as if she’s about to perform a trick. “Let me give you the address.” She scribbles it down on the back of the brochure and slides it over, B leaning over L’s shoulder to get a look. _Marigny_ _Street_. Outside the Quarter but not by much. 

“That’s a fancy lad.” B taps Malik Fürstenberg’s face, accidentally dusting ash on it. “Human vampire?”

Cherry’s posture relaxes and a smile blossoms across her face. “Oh, that’s Malik, our founder. He’s wonderful, I think you’ll like him a lot.”

B smirks and leans forward, his elbows planted on the table as he blows a stream of smoke over his shoulder. “You sound smitten, sweetheart. I’m almost jealous.”

She blinks rapidly and drops her gaze into her lap, her smiled softer but still lingering on whatever rosy, private thoughts fill her head. “Well, he’s by far the smartest man I’ve ever met.”

L folds his hands into his lap and stares at her until she feels it and glances up. 

“I’m sure that was true as of yesterday.” 

* * *

 

B can’t help smirking a little despite the weight of fatigue in his bones.  _ Lawliet can be a bit of a dick on a case. But it’s a little fun to watch him. _ L only has a few types for getting information out of people, but they tend to make up for lack of versatility with an unsettling effectiveness.

After they leave Cherry, or Judith, as B is starting to get into the habit of thinking of her, Lawliet doubles round the block.  _ Worried about being followed? _ B knows that paranoia well, though he’s been checking the skies more fervently.

_ No sign of Nirae, thank God. _

When they make it back to their would-be haunted house, Lawliet wastes no time in phoning up the SIM-card bug on Cherry. 

The two of them work quick to rig up their end of the bug to his laptop speakers and tune into the sound of heels on the pavement. For a while it’s simply that sort of white noise. Lawliet watches rapt, but allows B to arrange himself around him on the floor, gently working his fingertips into his tight muscle. It’s just starting to feel comfortable when they both perk up at the slam of a door and the creak of what sounds like old wood. Boots tapping on it.

“Dulcinea. Angel. My graveyard rose, where the hell have you been?” the man’s voice is liquid-smooth, young. So the boyfriend we saw at Cosette’s? Or someone else.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry my love. The two men you asked about? I have the information you’re after. They’re rich, or one of them certainly is. And interested in the Collaborative’s work.”

“I sense skepticism - -  we are not merely, ‘tourist crap - - and our work to be treated with the respect it deserves.”

“Incredible– that’s exactly what they said,” she sounds rapt but– not as if it’s an irregular occurrence. _ Well at the very least, that’s the fucker that’s bugging her. Or one of them. _

“As I foresaw.”

B exchanges a snigger and a glance with Lawliet. _ Jesus, is this guy for real? So maybe this is going to be a fun case after all. _ It’s a cold shiver down his back when he remembers that that these are still murderers they’re listening to.  _ If I’m going to take the word of a fucking god of death. _

“I invited them to the event – you wanted to keep them close by, yes?” she says, her eagerness to please obvious even through the scratchy signal, “They seemed quite clever. Nothing compared to you, of course…am unenlightened clever.”

B snorts.  _ Boy, he’s really got her going _ . Then Lawliet gets up, knocking B slightly as he stares at an empty shelf yet to be filled with case notes.

“Something wrong?”

* * *

 

L’s jaw is beginning to hurt from clenching it so hard. It almost is enough to keep him from being alarmed to learn that the man on the other end of the bug – Malik, probably – prompted Judith to target them specifically.  _ As if he must have heard about them in advance. But who?… _  L’s conversation with the bartender at the carousel bar floats back to him. He had been awfully eager to tell L about Cosette’s, and he’d been the one to tell Ethan and Karla about Cosette’s, too. He must have tipped Malik off.  _ For what reason? _

Massaging his jaw, L tips his head up slightly, his eyes landing on the bookcase across from where they sit. A glaring absence jumps out at him and he comes to his feet in a rush.

“Something wrong?”

L moves to the bookcase and runs his hands over the shelf, as if to check by touch that it really is empty. “Possibly.“ 

On the speakers Malik has moved on to giving Judith detailed instructions on what kind of wine and refreshments to buy for the event, so L returns to his mobile and hangs up on the call, pausing the recording program on his laptop. 

“When I came here last night to call Q and get the GSM transmitter, I stepped on a small toy robot by the front door.” He points in that direction. “I don’t remember seeing any toys around here before. Did you?”

“No.” B shrugs. “The flat owner doesn’t have kids." 

Nodding, L crosses his arms and faces the shelf again. "I put the robot right here on this shelf, and now it’s gone." 

The floor creaks as B leans forward.

"Not just that, but when I was in the bath, talking to Q…I thought I saw something in the mirror.” He looks over his shoulder, meeting B’s slowly widening eyes. “Just an impression of it, but it seemed pale and small. Like a child, maybe. But then I dropped the phone and by the time I got out, there was nothing there.” 

* * *

 

“A kid with white hair?” B feels the blood drain from his face, “Like the one I saw. With Nirae.”

L rubs his jaw ruefully, “Yeah. Guess so.”

Fucking Christ. Lawliet too? B feels like his head is spinning, feels the fear quickening in his chest and starting to flicker at his eyes, “Jesus. So. Haunted house eh?”

_ I fit right in _ . He half-stutters out a laugh at that, realizing a moment after it sounds strained. Lawliet crosses to him, squeezing at his hand and pressing a finger to his wrist.

“It’s most likely a child squatting in the house, then. It’s an old house and there are plenty of places to hide.”

“You don’t think it might be a real ghost? Lawliet. He had no death date,” B is far more unsettled by this than he expected.  _ But hell, everyone dies unless… _

“Ghosts don’t have toy robots, and neither do Gods of Death, right?”

“You’re sure the robot was - -”

“B, I stepped on it. That I’m sure was there. The child less so – but given that the robot is gone and it was neither of ours.”

“Right.” B wants to believe the L for logical explanation, but something doesn’t add up. Something about the kid’s wide, grey eyes. _ Oh. He was staring at Nirae.  _ He glances up at Lawliet, wondering whether to bring this up– but Lawliet already has one hand on the keyboard, dragging up files from Q and Lenny.

“So. What have we got for the missing tourists?” B squeezes Lawliet’s hand and tries, tries to let skepticism take hold.

* * *

 

The ding of arriving emails yanks L straight back into the case, the toy robot fading into insignificance. Crouching over the laptop screen, his eyes skim over the background checks on Ethan and Karla, first. For Karla, there isn’t much – no credit history or taxes filed, no employment history to speak of. Lenny’s footnote confirms that her parents are undocumented migrant workers from Guanajuato, Mexico. In contrast, Ethan Rush’s file is lengthy, showing his employment history as an auto mechanic, his seven traffic violations, his DUI at age twenty-one, his bad credit score and numerous outstanding debts. 

The only information that gives L serious pause, though, is that three months ago, Ethan won $92,000 dollars on a lottery ticket (closer to $130,000, actually, but Ethan opted to take the money in one lump sum, with a large portion removed for taxes). Instead of using that money to pay off his outstanding debts, there’s a record of extravagant purchases, including a new sports car and a breast augmentation procedure (for Karla, L assumes; it seems a strange thing to gift to one’s mother). 

"Ethan recently came into money through a lottery ticket,” L mutters without looking up from the screen. “It seems he spent the last of it on their trip to New Orleans." 

"Maybe he was flashing cash around.” B’s breath is warm on his shoulder. “That seems to catch Judith’s eye." 

"Quite possible.” L glides the cursor over the screen. “Let’s see what Lenny found on Judith West.”

Hailing from California’s Bay Area, Judith lost her father, a stage actor and poet, to a violent bar brawl when she was only nine years old. Her credit history is virtually spotless, while her employment history reveals a number of short-lived jobs along the West coast, mostly as a waitress, hostess, or dancer.  

“She’s been arrested twice.” B’s already skipped ahead to the end of the report. “Trespassing and disorderly conduct." 

Soaking in the details makes one thing abundantly clear: Judith is a fan of attaching herself to causes and movements. The trespassing charge was a result of her breaking into a laboratory with an animal rights’ group; the disorderly conduct charge came about when she rallied with the Portland chapter of the Ordo Templi Orientis.

"Who the fuck are they?" 

"A religious and fraternal organization.” L turns his head and lifts an eyebrow. “They practice sex magick, among other things.”

B snorts. “Sounds about right.”

It’s only then that L notices how B’s fists are clenched at the top of his thighs, the knuckles white. His eyes keep roving around too, ever watchful for something. 

“B…” L reaches for one of his clenched fists. “I really don’t think it’s a ghost. But I’ll call the home owner and ask if he’s seen anything peculiar in the house, if you’d like me to.”

* * *

The words echo strangely in B’s head, even as he squeezes Lawliet’s fingers back gently, “Nah. I think….I think I’m alright.” 

“Alright,” Lawliet does give him a bracing look, but B doesn’t know what to say, “I think I could use a nap.”

“Yeah. That sounds good.” 

The master bedroom has the same high curtains and luxurious feel as the _Monteleone_ , but there’s something at once unsettling and familiar about the grey agedness of it. B wants to keep looking over his shoulder– but Lawliet tugs him close on the bed. _Maybe – he wants a little comfort, for once._ B laces Lawliet’s fingers with his, revelling slightly in his regular heartbeat. 

B spends the first few minutes flickering his eyes open, expecting to catch ghosts or worse. But over time his eyes slide shut, into a relatively dreamless sleep at last. 

They sleep longer than B had expected.  _ Which can only be a good thing, with Lawliet. _ Sure enough, after grabbing muffleta and ice cream on Decatur Street Lawliet pops a few of the small pills, to keep sharp for the night. B doesn’t take his hand, feels too close for a case. But at least it feels more natural to be looking over his shoulder.  _ Wish it was suspects I was looking for.  _

_ Better the Arcane History Collective’s bullshit ghosts than mine. _ All the passersby smile and laugh drunkenly beneath their death dates.  _ Business as usual _ . When they arrive at the address Judith scribbled down, it’s a crumbling but majestic theatre space just on the edge of the Quarter. The posters mostly advertise contemporary theatre, and the marquee seems like most of the letters have fallen off. 

When they come inside, the wallpaper is peeling as well, and the place smells slightly of rot. Old columns, plaster flaking off of them, flank the lobby at all four corners. At the front window, a squat but thin middle-aged man watches them warily.

“Tickets?”

“Uh, Cherry said she’d hook us up? Brian and Liam?” B knows his best attempt at clueless tourist is pretty good. 

He shuffles some papers, squinting at the page, “Okay. Go on in.”

* * *

 

Predictable, the stage is lit by candles and old-fashioned lime-lights, flanked on either end by rich velvet curtains. The only prop on the stage is a birdcage on a stand, with what appears to be a dead blackbird laying inside it.

“He’ll resurrect that bird at the end of his lecture,” L predicts in a bored drawl,  and B snorts back a snicker. 

L counts nineteen people in the space, and it’s clear that at least a dozen of them are regulars, or members of the so-called collaborative. They sit clumped together in the first row, Judith West among them. She looks over her shoulder and gives them a finger-wiggle, then returns to rapt conversation with her friends. 

The other attendees look to be tourists. A group of three women – all young and drunkenly clutching hurricane cups from Pat O'Brien’s – and another couple, attractive enough to have been snared at Cosette’s or another club. The last couple is a bit older, but appear to be the most serious, both of them holding notebooks and leaning forward eagerly in their seats. 

“Mixed crowd,” B murmurs, sliding into one of the middle rows and draping himself over the armrest. L pries a small notebook from the back pocket of his jeans and wordlessly passes it to B, along with a pen. “Got it.” B uncaps the pen with his teeth and starts writing down all the names and dates that he can see. 

The lime-lights suddenly drop low, leaving the stage bathed in the glow of candles, the light from the flickering flames licking up the curtains and walls in an eerie spectacle. A trim man of a rather tall, stooped height strolls onto the stage and the lime-lights rise again, revealing his face – Malik Fürstenberg, dressed in a vintage suit and almost as in need of a haircut as L.

“Good evening,” he says in a low, pleasant voice. Some of the drunk girls giggle, but Judith and her friends are clearly under his spell, silent and still. “Thank you for being here, old and new faces alike.“ 

He briefly describes the Collaborative’s history and mission, a rehash of what was on the pamphlets, then clears throat and launches into the meat of his lecture.

“On the outset, vampirism and voodoo are intrinsically at odds with one another. Haitian Vodou is concerned with maintaining a strict division between life and death, while vampires are seeking to thwart death in pursuit of eternal life. A place like New Orleans, however, is a place of paradox and hybridity. Our local Voodoo is the marriage of West African folk magic with Catholicism; two belief systems which should rightly be at odds with each other, but have flourished in this city. New Orleans is a city where binaries melt away: French and Spanish, the Occult and the Church, Voodoo and Vampirism….”

And on he goes, peppering his speech with just enough Academic language to sound impressive, but not so much that he ever becomes obtuse. The scholarly-looking couple scratch away furiously in their notebooks, and even the drunk girls have gone rapt in attention. No surprise, really, since objectively speaking, Malik is rather attractive. He knows how to capture an audience’s attention, as well, pausing for effect at just the right moment, and interjecting with the occasional bit of humor. 

Just as Malik starts describing the "dialectic between the cultural pillars of magick,” L leans over to B and lets a whisper slip out. “So what’s his real name, then?”

* * *

 

B has been fixated on his name from the moment they walked in since it’s not just a peculiar one–  _ it’s scary how close to home it is. All of it. _ He swallows. 

“Lind L. Tailor.”

“Lindle Tailor?” Lawliet nods, but B grabs his wrist, and shakes his head.  _ It’s a bit more of a fucking coincidence than that.  _ He gestures towards the name and death date on the list. Death date is a mere handful of years away, too.  _ Which bodes well for the case, I guess _ . Lawliet’s eyes widen, but he quickly turns his gaze back to the stage. 

“That’s what it says–” B keeps his voice to a hiss.

“That must be his name then. We’ll have Q confirm it later,” Lawliet squeezes his hand, and B tries to remember if Lawliet has ever used the word  _ confirm _ about his eyes before.  _ Hell, have the eyes ever been wrong about the names before? _

B is sure the answer is  _ no _ , but it’s hard to feel sure about anything. Tailor finishes the talk, and sure enough, hones in on the limp blackbird in the cage, “Now I’ve presented to you many alternative views on life and death. I’d like to close with a demonstration, if you’ll bear with me.”

“This poor creature lost its life on the glass windows of this theatre earlier today. At first glace, there was no saving it– shattered neck,” Tailor holds the bird tenderly for a moment, which makes the part where he extracts its head that much more shocking, the slight trail of blood from its neck staining his pale fingers. 

“But I hope that today’s lecture has taught you to broaden your minds regarding the possibility of the broken– becoming whole again,” he presses the head to the center of the bird’s stump, and it begins to struggle, wings flapping until it takes off to the theater’s rafters, crying out.

_ Neat trick. _

“Do we have any questions from the audience members? Save perhaps, regarding my parlour trick, ruins the mystique,” Tailor smiles indulgently at the crowd.  _ Right, time to go work. _

B shoots up his hand, eager to play the fool, “Was Marie Laveau a real vampire?” 

He hadn’t mentioned Laveau in his talk, except in passing –  _ probably knows that most people have heard of her and she’s more well-researched. _ “Laveau was one of the more important gateways between Catholicism and Voodou– I’ve been working on an entire paper regarding her connections to the subject, but it’s more academic in nature. All I can tell you for the moment is that it’s a distinct possibility she would have considered herself as such.” 

Tailor smiles enigmatically, having successfully said absolutely nothing while guising it as something intelligent.  _ So at least he’s not like Lawliet in any real way. _ B nods in feigned awe while he feels Lawliet raise a hand next to him.

* * *

 

Malik’s – or Lind’s – eyes briefly meet L’s, then pass right on by, settling on the scholarly couple.

“Yes, you there.” He fights back a smirk and avoids L’s gaze, that one gesture unintentionally confirming more about his character than he can possibly realize. 

_ Afraid of losing control. Maintains image at all cost. Takes pleasure in small, petty triumphs.  _ L slowly withdraws his raised hand and settles back in his chair as Malik and the scholar banter about the writings of Aleister Crowley. As the conversation tapers off, L looks into his lap and gnaws at the end of his finger, not so much as flinching when Malik calls out. “You there, in the back? I believe you had your hand up.”

Right on cue, B gives him a nudge and L lazily lifts his gaze back to the stage, moving his finger a quarter of an inch from his mouth. “If you’re so certain you’ve discovered the path to surpassing death and extending life, why on earth share it in a public lecture unless you’re prepared to provide more specifics.”

Malik blinks discernibly, tilting his head as if L’s question is out of line – a stalling tactic that L recognizes at once. It’s an opening.

"Typically in these scenarios, the specifics come at a price. What’s the price for those looking to skip over this sales pitch and assess the actual goods?”

From her cluster of followers, Cherry pivots in her chair and stares at him, agape. The scholarly man shoots him a bit of a glare, as well.

Malik’s smile is quick and eel-like. Unruffled. “We’re dealing with the liminal space of life and death, my friend, and it’s my responsibility to ensure that the ‘specifics,’ as you call them, are only available to those of earnest heart and mind. Now then –” He claps his hands together lightly. “Please join us for a reception in the lobby. An opportunity for us to mingle and get better acquainted.”

* * *

 

The lobby has been set with an attempt at a graceful reception, a single table with a slightly yellowing table cloth and a meager spread of food sitting in the corner. A few odd-looking people that B doesn’t recognize, mostly as odd and downtrodden as the man who took their tickets. The two giggling drunk girls make a bee-line for a younger guy slouching in the corner. B recognizes the transaction for what it is– and what they were really here for.

_ Drugs, just like Judith was offering to hook us up with. So there’s the other side of what the ‘collaborative’ does to stay afloat. _ B wonders if Malik has all his people bugged, or just Judith.  _ If he’s anything like Lawliet–  _  B stops that thought, the joke seeming tasteless, even in his own mind. Besides, Lawliet had reason to be paranoid, sometimes.  _ Sometimes _ . 

Lawliet takes a air of disinterest in the surroundings, one finger jammed into his mouth, but B knows he’s taking it all in. Judith heads straight for them, something of an incredulous smile on her face.

“I had no idea you had such an interest– come on, Malik would  _ love _ to meet you,” she takes Lawliet’s hand and he allows himself to be dragged over to where Malik is talking animatedly with another couple. She rocks back and forth on her high-heels while he barely acknowledges her.  _ Well, this is going to go over well. _

“Brian, why don’t we grab some snacks? I want to get some of that cake,” Lawliet drops Judith’s hand and B follows, almost feeling Malik’s head turn when Judith follows them as well. Lawliet goes for several cheap-looking cupcakes and some fruit while pointedly ignoring Malik’s gaze. 

“Want some punch, sweetheart?” B tilts his head at Judith, then winks at Lawliet. 

“Thanks,” Lawliet states, taking the plastic cup. Judith blushes when B offers her one, thrown off balance by the both of them.  _ And she’s not the only one _ . Before long, Malik Furstenburg himself is standing behind them, taking a glass of his own.

“Oh, um. Brian, Liam. Malik Furstenburg,” Judith gives him a bit of a wave, and he nods grandiosely.  _ Can you believe this piece of shit? _ B takes a swig of the punch to keep himself from glaring.

“I noticed you had a very– direct interest in the Collaborative’s work,” he sticks out his hand to Lawliet, who stares just long enough before shaking it back, then wiping a hand on his pants. 

* * *

 

“Nah, uh. Liam is the smart one, I just tag along. Or drag him into stuff like this, though I’m into horror stories. This was different than I expected, but like, in a good way. Guess I shoulda taken Cherry– uh, Dulcinea, seriously that it’d be serious,” B trips over his words to give the illusion of being impressed.  _ Playing him sweet and sour. _ Working off Lawliet is a lot of fun. 

“Laveau’s story is quite interesting. I can tell you that I’m current researching the mythology of the grave crossings– the red evoked vampiric roots, but it would of course be more complicated than that. I’m interested in their ceremonial use.”

“This for uh. ‘Research’ or practice?”

“Research  _ is _ practice, Brian,” Tailor smiles with the right combination of winning and mystery.

“Guess we’ve gotta come to one of these gathering, eh?” he looks to Lawliet as if uncertain, who smiles almost indulgently. 

“I suppose we will.”

It’s smooth as butter from there on out, Lawliet gets the address and date from Tailor, and B makes excited small talk with Judith.  _ So a good rhythm. Definitely on the right track, even if he had a shot at bugging us first. _

B and L don’t bother to double back this time, taking a cab directly back to their residence in the heart of the Quarter. As soon as L locks the front door, he has his cell phone out and is dialing up the bug on Judith’s phone. B smiles a little bit, ruffling his long black hair.  _ Really needs a cut, doesn’t it. _

When the bug kicks in, it’s still with the tail end of a conversation with the academics. But it seems like Tailor is trying to edge out of it.  _ Hopefully for something more interesting. _ In any case, it’s a nicer way to do a stakeout than B is used to. Lawliet pulls his laptop out to send off a quick email to Q with Tailor’s name and an urgent request for a background check.  _ House feels alright, sometimes. _ B casts a glance warily to the empty shelf, still devoid of any robots. 

_ Let’s focus on the real ghosts and vampires. _ He smiles at Lawliet’s busy work, in spite of himself.  _ And the living.  _

“Hey, come into the kitchen? Can give you a haircut, if you like,” B has done himself a number of times for disguises, and then a few allies. 

“Sure, thanks,” Lawliet sets the phone to speaker, and lets B sit him down in a chair, comb his hands through his lush, slightly greasy hair.  _ I guess. This is what cases could be like. _

* * *

 

L hunches at the end of the chair, wincing slightly at the harsh sound of scissors snipping away. A haggard fatigue is beginning to settle into his bones – after this he’ll need a warm bath, and then a long sleep. 

"Be honest,” he says, watching black hair fall to the white linoleum. “It’s not that it’s too long, it’s that it looks a bit too much like Lind L. Tailor’s.”

B laughs, but it might be strained, or perhaps he’s just tired, too. “No, it’s definitely too long." 

L’s hair is thick and coarse, and when it’s long it waves oddly against the nape of his neck, but when it’s short it seems to stick out wildly in every direction, no happy medium to be found. Still, it feels good to be able to run his fingers through it and not have them get caught. "Thanks.” He shakes a few wayward hairs from his shoulders.

The background chatter on the phone has started to fuzz out, barely audible now. “Judith must be going out of range.” He pushes the button to end the call, putting his phone face down on the kitchen table. No use draining the bug’s battery life for nothing.

After a warm bath they crawl into bed and turn the television on, somehow managing to find a ten-year old BBC documentary on the artist Francis Bacon. The narrator’s stuffy, muted accent reminds L of home. Not Marylebone, but Wammy’s House, and that first year that B came to live there. His visions were bad at first, but sleeping with the television on seemed to keep the bad dreams at bay. It makes L drowsy even now, his head rolling against B’s shoulder, only jerking to a start when he hears the  _ ding _ of an incoming email. 

He heaves the laptop off the nightstand and sits up in a pool of bedding, the stark white glow of the screen suddenly lighting up the dim room.

“Just a preliminary report.” He scans the attached document, which is in fact quite thorough. “The Tailor family, it would appear, own a plantation out in Thibodaux, out in the Southeastern bayous of Louisiana. Both Tailor’s parents and his immediate relatives have declared bankruptcy several times.”

B peers over his shoulder. “That’d explain the con-artist act." 

"The first Tailors to settle in Louisiana were slave-traders and sugar cane farmers. Until the Civil War, they were one of the wealthiest families in the state.”

The rest of the report describes a family who have refused to stop living as if they are rich and important. Lind was send to a private school in Broussard where the yearly tuition was over fifteen thousand dollars a year, though the tax documents Q recovered show that the sugar cane farm’s profits were nothing to boast about. The money must have run out by the time he was ready for University. He did one year at Tulane before dropping out, despite the fact that his grades were excellent. Not long after that, he was arrested in New Orleans for dealing drugs, but the case was thrown out by the judge for lack of evidence. 

Reading that bit, L makes a scoffing noise under his breath.

“What is it?” B curls into him slightly. 

“Lind paid off the judge when he was arrested. I’m sure of it.” He sits up straighter and shuts the laptop, turning toward B in the dark. “That’s why he’s still dealing. He gives a cut to the cops; the cops arrest the tourists he sells to, and the tourists pay off the judge again. It’s a system that makes everyone rich. Except for the tourists, of course. And Lind gets the smallest cut of all, but at least it keeps the police off his back…” L trails off and shrugs, flopping back against the pillows.

“Jesus. It’s really that corrupt, huh?" 

"It really is. There’s good reason I haven’t consulted with law enforcement here.”

B rolls toward him, fingers digging into L’s ribs in a way he doesn’t particularly mind. “Well, fuck ‘em.” He sighs sleepily into the side of L’s neck. “We don’t need them." 

_ We never did.  _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah were you surprised to learn who turned up? Hope you're enjoying the story so far, leave a comment letting us know what you think!


	5. April 10, 2000

**April 10, 2000**

B wakes with the taste of a bad dream in his mouth, but no memory of it. It’s still a bit too early for Lawliet to wake.  _ Not with how little he’s probably gonna sleep when we get going. _ B runs a hand through his hair and sighs, watching Lawliet’s steady breathing.

There’s a monster waiting for him in the kitchen.  _ Of fucking course there is. _ He ignores Nirae’s looming presence and puts on the coffee. She studies him without speaking, her ragged dress dragging on the old wood of the kitchen floor. B opens the fridge, searching for some fruit to cut up for breakfast.  _ If this is going to be normal I’m going to fucking act like it. _

“I knew someone who liked those,” she eyes the apple slices hungrily.  _ Does she eat? _ B closes his eyes, gives in to curiosity and pushes a slice along the countertop towards her.

“Oh, no, not for me. It’d become an addiction,” she cocks her head innocently,  _ God, is she serious or is this just. Me thinking about Lawliet again? Fuck. _ He takes a bite of the apple viciously, wondering what kind of proof it would be if she’d taken it. She blinks, her round, red-tinted eyes like black holes. B wishes he couldn’t see any of it.

“Do you like having my eyes, Beyond?”

_ Oh that’s fucking rich. _

“You think I  _ like _ knowing when people have died? When they will die?” B spits through gritted teeth.  _ I mean, come on. I’m fucked up but I would never have never chosen that. _

“Don’t you make use of them?”

B freezes with the knife. He’s thought before, often even, about how much his work depends on that knowledge.  _ Every way I’ve been useful to Lawliet is about that. _

“You know. If you want, I can take them back. Now that I don’t have my Note anymore, they won’t do me any good.”

“Fuck off.”

She jerks her head back and forth in what might be a shrug, “Who knows how soon I’ll be dead. But for as long as I’m around, Beyond. The offer is there.”

He piles the chopped apples with some slightly stale beignets on the tray, along with coffee.  _ I don’t need this subconscious bullshit.  _ B isn’t sure whether he’s tempted or terrified. Everything is getting turned on his head.  _ I need to see something constant – need to see Lawliet. _

_ But was he constant? _ B takes a swig of the coffee, too hot for him not to gag and cough on it.  _ Was anything really constant, other than the names and dates. _

_ Jesus. I can’t think like this. _ He takes up the tray and leaves the room, worrying at his lip.

“Watch for the child, Beyond,” her parting words send an awful shiver down his spine.

He counts himself lucky she doesn’t follow him up the stairs.

* * *

 

It’s the smell of coffee that finally rouses L out of a heavy, dreamless sleep. He opens his eyes slowly, stretching his deadened limbs until his vision clears and reveals B sitting at the end of the bed, nibbling on a slice of apple.

“Morning.” L’s voice is dry, practically a croak, and B passes him a cup of coffee, doctored with lots of cream and sugar. Straightening up against the pillows, L takes a few long swallows and glances at the clock. Five past ten a.m. 

“Smile.” L turns toward the sound of B’s voice and a camera shutter. B snaps off a few more pictures as L laughs, half-protesting. “Got to commemorate the hair cut while it lasts.“ 

**_Haircut [do not edit or repost]_ **

L runs his fingers through the short, almost-spikey tufts of hair, having completely forgotten about last night’s hair cut, but feeling relatively indifferent about it in the bright light of morning. He tears into a beignet and dunks the other half into his coffee, eating with such relish that crumbs and coffee sluice down his chin. 

And then, the doorbell rings. 

The sound jars both of them, L nearly tipping his coffee into the clean sheets, while B bounces to his feet. Neither of them have ever lived in a place with a doorbell, where visitors can come and go whenever they please. 

“What do we do?” B’s eyes are wide.

“Ignore it.” L wipes off his face and sets down his cup, crossing his arms tightly across his lap. “They’ll go away eventually.”

But the ringing persists, as if the person outside knows that someone is home. Walking to the front windows, B peers around the curtains. “It’s Judith. Or Dulcinea, I guess. How’d she find the place?“ 

"Oh, Jesus.” L swings out of bed and gathers a sheet around his waist, pounding down the stairs and throwing the front door open on what must be the twentieth ring. Judith jumps back at the sudden movement, nearly falling down the porch steps and into the tiny garden below.

“Hi-i,” she stammers, catching herself against a balustrade. “Um, I’m sorry to come by without an invitation. But I need to talk to you guys." 

"What is it?” L’s voice is about as crisp and uninviting as it’s ever been, even to his own ears. He knows it would be better to indulge her. Better for the case, but not better for him. He can’t remember the last time anyone managed to invade his privacy in such a fashion.

Her mouth opens and closes, fish-like. “It’s Malik. I need to talk to you about Malik.” She wraps her arms around herself and shivers slightly – a good approximation of fear, at least.

L presses his lips together tightly, but can already feel the rest of him relenting. This could very likely be a set-up; Lind L. Tailor is clever and resourceful, and has clearly been digging for information on “Liam” and “Brian.” He’s freely used Judith as a tool for getting that information in the past, and might very well be doing so again. 

But Judith doesn’t know who she’s dealing with, and neither does Lind L.Tailor.

L opens the door wide and stands aside for her. 

* * *

“Thank you, I didn’t know where to go, and you seemed so smart at the lecture…” 

_ Color me surprised, he let her in. _ B waves lazily at Judith, keeping up the role of ‘Liam’s’ kept man in his boxer shorts and loose tee. She looks small and fragile, even next to the ridiculous sight of Lawliet with his sheet trailing on the floor. 

“Hey sweetheart, how did you find us?”

“Yes, how  _ did _ you find us?” Lawliet gives her the bug-eyed treatment again, and she retreats into herself.

“I followed you after the lecture!” she blurts out, blinking back tears. 

_ Now that’s a lie and all of us know it.  _

“Hmm. I’m going to go dress,” Lawliet leaves the room, signalling B with a subtle twist of his ring finger hand to  _ ‘play nice’. I can work with that. _

“I’ll get some tea,” B hurries out to the kitchen. He doesn’t try to comfort her when she follows into the kitchen, but all the same.  _ Her sniffling doesn’t seem all that faked. _ B has a good nose for this sort of thing, too. Against his better judgement, he likes Judith, and wants to believe that she at least dislikes Tailor.  _ Not that that hasn’t gotten me into trouble on cases before. _

B puts on some English Breakfast, which Lawliet favours in the mornings, and sets out the sugar bowl. There’s a tense silence in which Lawliet studies Judith and she mops her face with a box of tissues on the table. B pours her a mug of tea. She sips it, mumbling a thanks. 

“Tell us why you’re here,” Lawliet is ever direct as he adds spoon after spoon of sugar to his tea.”

“I’m worried– about what the Collaborative is doing. Well, you’ll see it when you come to the house, it’s just so intense. Malik is getting more involved with experimenting with the rituals. It scares me.”

“Mmm,” Lawliet runs a finger along his lip. Judith watches with barefaced interest, “Are you sleeping with him?”

B only has to half-fake choking on his tea. Judith looks similarly uncomfortable.  _ Well, that was direct. But he got what he wanted. _

“He’s my boyfriend, I suppose,” she looks away, biting her lip, “He can be very controlling.”

_ You don’t even know the half of it, sweetheart. _ He sips his tea, thinking of the bug Tailor has in her purse, even now.

“You allow people to treat you very poorly. Others must take advantage of that,” Lawliet nibbles at his fingertip, “We won’t. But you should be more careful who you trust.”

She nods gratefully, just as, he’s sure, Lawliet expected her to. B is surprised how much the words hit home, he has to mentally school his features into a forced nod.  _ Look, he’s just playacting, setting her off balance. And she’s acting too, isn’t she? _

“We can help you,” he tries to sound convincing, and it comes out that way too.  _ It always does.  _

* * *

L can tell from the lilt of B’s spine, from the way he drapes his elbows across the table and takes Judith in through wide, absorbing eyes, that his sympathy is being stoked. Which is good. Empathy is a useful tool for sketching out a story, adding possibility and projection, shades of grey to the otherwise stark black and white. Cynicism is its natural pair, a chisel to chip away all excess. 

But even cynicism needs to be tempered with empathy, and as L casually takes in Judith’s slightly shaking hands and wide pupils – blown not by arousal this time, but nerves – he determines that while she is likely here on Malik’s orders, she’s also revealing things that he wouldn’t approve of. She’s a performer, a nude dancer, even; a mere seduction wouldn’t faze her, but being torn between a new love interest and a long-term boyfriend would. 

The fact that L is the love interest is peculiar indeed. It’s not a role he’s accustomed to. B is a much better cartographer of the heart, and when L made his decision treat Judith with aloof interest, he anticipated that such treatment would drive her toward B. But after meeting Lind L. Tailor, L understands why.

When he told her _ ‘you allow people to treat you very poorly. Others must take advantage of that,’  _ it was the truth. It was also a warning. 

She doesn’t hear is as such, taking it instead as an accurate description of herself, if her grateful nod is any indication. It’s enough to bathe L in a wave of vague depression, then forge ahead for information. Any information. 

"We can help you.” And he does want to, provided it doesn’t interfere with the case. “What is it about the rituals that’s gotten scary?” He smirks around the rim of his teacup. “And does it involve dead animals?”

The wince of her features indicate he’s struck a direct hit. T _ he former animal-right’s activist. _ “Yeah. I don’t mind the magic tricks. I like the spells and even –” she tenses again, choosing to withhold something. “But he needs an assistant sometimes, and I’m the one with the most stage experience…”

B’s fingers stroke along her arm, tender as a cat’s paw. “What’d he make you do?" 

The breath she sucks in is huge. "Well I’m sure you know about voodoo and animal sacrifice, how it honors the Lwa.” She shrugs, already trying to play it off. “I had to slit a rooster’s throat once." 

_ ‘I had to.’ _ L makes a mental note.  _ Not 'he made me.’  _

“Jesus,” B says a beat later, as if he hadn’t slit throats before.  _ God, now there’s a thought. _ He squeezes Judith’s arm absently, “So what can we do to help? What do you need us to do?”

She seems to falter a bit then, the question unexpected to her, “Well. I just. I need Malik’s support. And I don’t want to.”

“Financially?”

“Yes! Yes.” she latches on to that word.  _ Finding her lie, huh? Sweetheart, you should have known your story inside out and backwards before you came to us. _

Lawliet picks at his nails, still playing the skeptic, “You don’t make sufficient funds as a burlesque dancer? Not to be pointed but you were very good.”

“Well Malik knows Cosette, and–” she stops suddenly, “He, um. He frequents the place. And I don’t know what he’d do if I left the Collective.”

“So you need to get out of town?” B glances over to Lawliet, as if asking for permission to help. He only sips at his tea delicately. Judith, on the other hand, only seems more agitated, as if realizing the conversation had gone the opposite way she expected it to.

“No– just. I should go, but….You’re coming to the event in a few days, right? At the Collective headquarters” she changes tactic, standing up, “The way you stood up to him…I’ll feel safer if you’re there.”

_ And that’s not a lie _ . Or if it is, she’s far too skilled to be bugged without her knowing about it, B is sure.

“Oh, okay,” B stands up with her, “You sure you’re gonna be okay? We wanna help any way we can.”

“Yes, we do,” Lawliet raises an eyebrow at her.

“Thank you,” she starts towards the door, and B goes to walk her out.  _ Should see if I can find out what happened to those tourists. Or get her thinking about it.  _

“Thank you again, so much, you’ve both been so kind,” she calls it to the kitchen, but Lawliet doesn’t come out.  _ Probably knows it’ll just make her more curious. _ B leans against the wall of the vestibule as she pulls her short jacket back on.

“You let us know if you need anything, or if you see anything that puts you or anyone else in danger before that.”

“He’s never put anyone in danger,” she says quickly.  _ Almost like she’s trying to convince herself. And isn’t that the biggest lie of all? _

B grimaces, breaking character for only a moment before smiling at her reassuringly once more at the open door, “Yeah. I don’t think either of you could hurt anyone.”

* * *

 

**April 10, 2000 [evening]**   


_ “I might have to sleep with her again.“  _

L asks the bartender at Cosette’s for a rum and coke and surveys the crowd, thinner than it was on the weekend, it looks more like a regular bar than a secret sex club. A pianist plays moody jazz under blue and purple lights. The color of bruises. 

_ “I might have to sleep with her again – or at least have her think it’s a possibility.” _

L had tried the bug again after Judith left, only to have the battery finally expire before they heard anything of significance. L stared at the ‘transmitter failure’ message on his laptop screen until the words smeared into black pixels. He never enjoyed feeling the limits of his own reach. It was even harder to take when he sensed something unsettling under the skin of this mystery – Malik was after him. He’d thought it was just because of money, because ‘Liam’ was so clearly a rich tourist. But there was something else. Something L couldn’t see yet. 

“Judith is fixated on me because that’s where Malik is fixated,” he told B. 

“But why? Because you have money?“ 

L nibbled on the end of his finger and pulled at the rug’s fringe with his toes. "Because he’s decided I’m someone important." 

After that, he told B what he needed to do: return to the Hotel Monteleone and question (gently or otherwise) the bartender from the carousel bar. The bartender had led L right into Malik’s territory – that couldn’t have been an accident. L would go to Cosette’s and find Judith, see how she opened up more when it was just the two of them. He was being Liam, and Liam was interested, albeit in a mostly aloof and clinical fashion. 

They waited until evening, then headed toward the river on foot, splitting up at St. Louis Cathedral, B heading for Decatur, L for Chartres. 

"Watch your back.” B’s voice disappeared into the dark streets along with the rest of him. 

“You too.” B had turned the corner but L could still see him, the curly, unruly hair, the sharp cheekbones – hollow beauty in the yellow glow of the gas street lamps. 

_ You’re the only one I love. _ The thought felt like it came from seven or eight years ago, still sharp and true enough to make L’s eyes sting. He slouched against a grimy wall and dug a pair of dexies from his pocket, melting them under his tongue. 

He can still taste them, even under the sweetness of the rum and coke, which he barely sips on.

“Is Cherry here tonight?” He asks the bartender. ’“Dulcinea, I mean.” The question ends with a sticky smile.

“She’ll be in at nine." 

L glances at clock above the rows of liquor bottles. It’s half past eight. 

"I’ll wait.”  

* * *

 

B doesn’t have much in the line of disguise material for the night; nor does he have the patterns of the New Orleans crime scene quite well-understood enough to blend in. Still, he ditches the leather jacket for a heavy sweatshirt that lends him bulk, tucks his hair under a ball cap, and shadows the hell out of the bones on his face.

_ With luck, I’ll be in and out and get what I need. _

He waits by the back entrance of the Monteleone for the opening of the door, sucking on a cigarette. The bartender took smoke breaks every few hours, according to Lawliet.  _ And more when it’s not busy. _ B checks his watch, taking a drag from his own smoke.  _ 8:30. Shouldn’t be long now. _

_ Hope Lawliet is faring alright. _ B almost coughs on the drag, nervous energy creeping up unexpectedly. B had assumed that L didn’t sleep around for cases much.  _ Didn’t seem like The Great Detective’s style. _ But B sincerely wants to believe that this won’t be the first time since the Lant street case. He nibbles at his knuckles, half-wishing they hadn’t split up for this job.  _ But it was necessary. _

Finally, a thin man with shaky hands and a suit B recognizes exits the service door and pulls out a lighter.  _ Jed Odell.  _ B catches his name from his hiding place behind the dumpster. It matches his nametag, too.  _ Time to make my move. _

“Hey. Are you that fucker Jed who told Laila to go to  _ Cosette’s _ ?” B has a character all picked out, a spurned would-be boyfriend of a rich woman who ditched him for the wild life. _ And now he’s out for blood and information. _

“I dunno who you’re talking about,” the bartender’s nose is twitching, slightly white around the edges.  _ Like an addict. _ B steps forward and shoves him into the wall before noting another piece of information he really should have gotten before. 

_ His death date is today. _

_ Shit. _

Behind him, B hears a dry, feminine crackle of a laugh.

_ Shit. _

* * *

 

When Judith does appear, it’s in the short, tight dress of a cocktail waitress. Coming around the bar with a tray in hand, she spots L at his corner stool almost immediately, streaks of bright pink coloring her cheeks.

“Hi.” She takes his empty rum and coke glass and sets it on her tray, her gaze coy and flirtatious. “Brian didn’t come with you?”  

“Not this time.” He looks her up and down appreciatively, though the appreciation is mostly owing to the fact that her dress is so snug that if she were bugged, it would be obvious. “Where are your feathers?”

“Burlesque is only on the weekends. I’m filling in for the regular waitress, Julie. She has food poisoning – bad gumbo.” Her teeth grind down slightly on her bottom lip, as if she wants to say more. Instead, she swirls around and heads back to the bar and puts in an order for another rum and coke.

“Thanks.” L takes the glass when she passes it over to him, though he has no interest in the alcohol. “When does your shift end?”

She bites down on her lip again, hesitates. “Midnight. But I can’t. I mean–”

He fixes her with wide eyes, knowing it will be taken as the kind of look given by men who are used to getting what they want. “Why? It wasn’t a problem last time. In fact, it was your idea.” He lifts an eyebrow and manages a small sip of his drink. “Unless you were doing someone else’s bidding. Like you did with the roosters…”

Sucking in a breath, she averts her eyes while nonetheless brushing her thigh against his knee and holding it there. “Malik is upstairs with Cosette. He expects me to go home with him tonight.” And then she hurries away with her tray, heading for the customers gathered around the piano.

L glances up at the ceiling, lined with fancy, pressed-tin tiles.  _ So Cosette herself lives upstairs _ . Judith is still busy with the other customers, giving them her best smile. L slips off his stool and heads out past the bouncer and into the stairwell.

“Hey. You can’t go up there,” the bouncer pipes up when L boldly takes the first three or four steps..

“I’m going to see Malik.”

The bouncer reaches between the spokes of the railing and puts a meaty fist around L’s ankle. “I said you can’t go up there.”

Instead of trying to shake loose, L holds onto the railing and relaxes his foot. The bouncer automatically relaxes his grip a tiny bit, too, and in that moment, L hangs on tight to the railing and snaps his knee, foot flying loose and hitting the bouncer square on the nose with a horrible  _ crunch _ .

“Fuck!” The bouncer reaches up to cover his spouting nose.

L darts up the stairs, the music from the piano fading behind him.

* * *

 

“Hey, what the fuck?” Jed barely starts to raise his voice before B shoves a fist in his face, relishing the way the cartilage crackles into his fist. Before he can yell, B pulls out his switchblade knife, an old favourite for playing up the street thug angle. There is a moment of blessed relief from the laughter, where all he can hear is the distant murmur of voices and Jed’s hard, terrified breathing. 

“Why did you send her to Cosette’s? She won’t even look at me now.” there’s truth tied up in B’s theatrical anger, and he can see how easy it is for Jed to believe it.  _ The fear will make him say anything, but I just have to keep him focused. _

“Look, it’s not me, there’s just a guy who pays me to, I swear!”

“Did he sleep with her?” it’s a stupid, unhinged question, but it keeps the conversation topic on Tailor for now.

“I don’t know? Yes? He’s stuck on this one dancer, I dunno who you’re talking about”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I don’t know, I swear! He just gives me the drugs and I send people to him. And tell him about them. That’s it, I swear!”

_ That’s a step in the right direction.  _ B breathes in slowly, trying to ignore the shape in his peripheral vision.  _ Monsters watching monsters. Well. At least I’m gonna get what I came for. _

“Karla and Ethan. Did you send them there too?”

The color further drains from his face.  _ Bingo. Got your interest now, _ “I…don’t know what happened to them, they were sweet kids, no money. I wish I hadn’t–”

“Are you going to kill him, Beyond?” Nirae’s taunting cuts over Jed’s desperate bargaining, “Who’s it going to be if not you?”

_ Shut up,  _ he thinks, slamming Jed against the wall instinctively. Jed cries out, perhaps a little too loudly, so he digs the knife just gently into his flesh.

“So it’s just the money, that’s it?”

“Yeah. That’s all I send then for, I swear, I dunno what he did with your gal. I sent a pair of guys in last week, told him one of them was a British Lord, he was rich as fuck,” Jed is babbling desperately at this point, but B hadn’t anticipated this change in conversation, “You look like– like his boyfriend or something.”

A shift goes through Jed’s panicked eyes, and the panic slowly settles into B’s stomach. _He knows who I am. Fuck._

_ I might have to kill him, now.  _

* * *

 

It’s Lind L. Tailor, aka Malik, who opens the door to the stately apartment on the building’s top floor. His smile, warm and welcoming, wavers only slightly when he sees ‘Liam’ on the threshold. 

“Liam.” He tips back on his heels slightly, his outfit quite a bit less ‘eccentric occultist’ than it was when L last saw him, and more prep-school chic. “What a pleasant surprise.” 

“Dulcinea said you were up here.” L peers around Lind’s shoulder, glimpsing a lavish parlor decorated in light, chiffon fabrics, furnished in spindly French antiques. “Mind if I join you for a moment?”

“Jefferson? Jefferson, who’s at the door?” The trembling voice of an older woman comes from somewhere within the apartment.

“Jefferson?” L fights back a smirk.  _ Another of your aliases?  _

“Her nephew’s name.” He shrugs modestly. “It seems to make her happy.” 

The ‘her’ turns out to be a woman past seventy, her frail form hunched on a pink chaise in a room that looks like an elaborate ice cream parlor. Despite her age, her bearing is regal, even intimidating, and she sets upon L with a pair of hawk-like, ice-blue eyes. 

“This is Liam, Mrs. Darbonne.” Lind sweeps his arm toward L in a grand, accomodating gesture. “Liam – I’m sorry, I don’t believe I’ve caught your last name?”

“Spencer. Liam Spencer.” The late Princess Diana’s last name.  _ Well, why not? _ L can see Lind make a mental note of it.

“Good evening, young man.” Mrs. Darbonne’s eyes aren’t anywhere near melting. “Why do you disturb my abode this evening?” 

“Liam’s a friend of mine, Mrs. Darbonne,” Lind interrupts with smooth grace. “And a frequent guest of your club.” 

“I see.” She lifts her glass of absinthe in a hand that’s glittering with jewels. “And do you enjoy Cosette’s?” Rather than wait for his answer, she continues on as if L has already replied in the affirmative. “It’s a bright spot in a city that grows more filthy by the day. New Orleans has always had an air of the _ érotique,  _ but ever since the hippies it’s turned positively debauched. No class. No sense of mystery. Well…” she sighs and takes a resigned sip of her drink. “With Jefferson’s help I’ve been able to keep the business alive. He’s done so much to keep you young folk coming by.” She casts a nearly warm gaze at Lind, and L is certain that she actually believes that Lind is her nephew, Jefferson. Another con from a seasoned con-artist.

L slouches to one side, cramming his hands into his pockets. “There’s quite a bit of that at Cosette’s. Class –” he smiles briefly at Lind “– and mystery.” 

* * *

 

B makes a snap decision, throwing Jed against the wall and letting his body crumple. He sits up, dazed for a moment. 

“Stay away from her. If you ever talk to her again,” he half-mumbles, half-yells, “I’ll kill you.”

He’s still squinting at B through a haze of pain in a way that makes B  _ very _ uncomfortable when he takes off at a run.  _ Hell. I should have checked his date before I agreed to this.  _ B wasn’t prepared to kill someone tonight, he needed a better disguise to get away with that kind of thing, a plan, what to do with the body.  _ And yeah, the police might be corrupt here, but if it’s sloppy enough. _

_ On the other hand, can’t let Tailor find out Lawliet and I are closing in on him. Fuck. _ B hasn’t felt this off-balance on a case since they were bugged in St. Petersburg. He slows his run, then doubles back to the alleyway, keeping out of sight. Jed has staggered up, looking both ways before starting away from the door. He isn’t going back to work.  _ Fuck. _ B knows what that means. 

“Here I thought you were going to let him live,” Nirae shakes her head behind him. 

“Shut up,” B growls.  _ I want to. I don’t want to have to do this right now. _ It somehow matters more than it normally would, more so than just being unprepared. B’s heartbeat is frantic in his chest, loud against his ribcage like a trapped animal. B takes a deep breath. 

_ He’ll die regardless of what you do tonight, so what does it matter if you’re the one that does it? _ The question he’s asked himself so many times. In the shadow of a so-called god of death, it’s harder to push it down, to trust what he’s always known.

“Knowing this means so little to shinigami, and yet it means so much to you humans,” she watches B trail him, as Jed attempts to hurry up but is slowed down by dizziness, “He doesn’t know he’s going to die, Beyond. But you know.”

_ Shut up, shut up. _ He’s definitely going deeper into the Quarter, winding around the buildings towards a path Beyond realizes is familiar.  _ Cosette’s. He’s going to find Tailor at Cosette’s.  _ B takes out his knife again and prays for another turn down a dark alley. 

_ Look, you can do this.  _

* * *

 

Mrs. Darbonne spends several minutes reminiscing about ‘better days’ before casting a harsh frown at L, who’s still standing near the doorway and shifting from foot to foot, gnawing rhythmically on his fingertip. 

“Well, if you’re not going to sit down and make yourself comfortable, then see yourself to the kitchen with Jefferson and help him prepare the coffee and dessert.” Her painted, wrinkled lips curl up in a smile again. “Pecan pie, my own special recipe.” 

Lind gives L a mild shrug, then leads L through several elaborately furnished chambers before arriving in an over-crowded kitchen with rather elderly appliances. “The pie is actually from a stall in the French market, but she likes to pretend that she bakes it herself.” He unties a pastry box and fishes through a drawer until he finds a sharp knife. “Grab some plates from the cabinet, if you don’t mind?” 

“Does she do a lot of that?” L opens cabinets until he finds one filled with mismatched but expensive-looking china. “Pretending.” 

Lind smiles into the glistening pie as he cuts up slices. “It’s Cosette’s world. We’re all just living in it.” 

They have dessert in the parlour, where the jazzy piano music drifts up from below. L nibbles at the end of his crust with little interest, wondering what exactly Lind’s relationship is with Mrs. Darbonne.  _ She’s a rich woman with quite a few delusions, but she hardly seems like a pushover.  _

L manages a small sip of his coffee and clears his throat. “Is Jefferson your employee, Mrs. Darbonne? I know that his girlfriend works for you.” He’s careful not to say the names ‘Dulcinae’ or ‘Cherry,’ because who knows what Mrs. Darbonne knows her as?  

“That little trollop? She only  _ thinks _ she’s my Jefferson’s girlfriend.” She drops her fork and reaches across the tablecloth to pat Lind’s hand with gnarled fingers. “Jefferson is my niece’s son. The Coutee side of the family – they all moved to godforsaken Gulfport some ten years ago, but Jefferson came back home to roost.” She continues to stroke Lind’s hand with an unsettling fondness, which Lind seems completely unfazed by, only giving Mrs. Darbonne an indulgent smile. 

“What about you, Liam?” He turns his smile on L. “Where is your family from?”

“Merry Olde England. West Country, if you know of it.”  _ Vague, but accurate _ . L pushes his pie away and rises from his chair. “Forgive my manners, but it’s getting late and I only came up here to ask Jefferson a question or two. Do you mind if we step into the hallway for some privacy?”

Mrs. Darbonne’s eyes flash icy again, making it clear she very much does mind, but  _ noblesse oblige _ reigns as she covers her frown with a few solid pats of her napkin. “Do as you must, then.” 

The bright candlelight fades when Lind shuts the apartment door behind them, leaving them in the relative gloom of the stairway’s landing.

* * *

 

Jed takes a shortcut through a parking garage on the edge of the Quarter a few blocks from Cosette’s. B takes his hiding place in the stairwell. _ It’s the perfect opportunity, Night being as busy as it is. _

B doesn’t want to dwell on how his hands are shaking on the knife.  _ Could it be someone else? Wouldn’t it have to be?  _ He knows that, always knew that, but then again.  _ I thought I know that the monsters weren’t real _ . He hears Nirae’s bone-wings rattle behind him, and he tenses to take a run, just go quickly for the throat when the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“Don’t move,”

They’re not alone.

“Put your hands up or I’ll shoot,” the man comes out of the gloom, gun trained at Jed, and B has to squint to read his name.  _ Just another mugger. Like I was just another mugger, to him. _ The whole scene suddenly seems dizzyingly familiar, to more than a decade ago when he was far too young to be the one holding the knife. The dripping of water echoes in the garage, and B has to steady himself against the wall as he is assaulted by the memory of laughter, Nirae’s laughter ringing in his ears, or was that the present?

He blinks hard, trying not to see the preimage of his father’s murderer advancing on Jed.  _ Just think of it as a good thing. As long as he kills Jed… you won’t have to. _

“Alright now walk me to your car.”

“Jesus christ, just my fucking luck,” Jed shook his head, staggering slightly, “I don’t have a car–”

“Liar,” his hands are shaking with desperation, “A suit like that, you gotta.”

“Look, just go after someone else,” Jed starts walking away, trying to go faster this time. The man’s face darkens. This is it. B is dizzy with equal fear and hope.

“Stop. You can’t– I’ll shoot! I will! Stop–”

BANG!

B watches the blood spatter in a random pattern against the floor, Jed’s name and date go dark before he hits the ground. The mugger-turned-murderer stares at the gun for a half a moment before turning and running like a hunted man. B lets his breath out, relief flooding through him. That is, before the rasp of a laugh cackles behind him.

“And how many times has a murder been a comfort to you, Beyond?”

* * *

 

“That’s right, you came up to see me.” Lind folds his arms behind his back and leans forward just enough to indicate mild expectation. 

L stares at him for one long, unblinking moment, during which Lind doesn’t wither in the slightest – not that L can detect. L knows that he’s a phony, through and through, but his artificiality is its own type of armor.   _ Even B would struggle to read him. _

Managing a small smile, L tilts his head to one side, scratching and pulled at his ear. “I asked Dulcinea if she could join me after her shift. She seemed to think that you were in charge of her choice in the matter. Which is quite opposite of how freely she approached us last time.” L widens his eyes a tad to emphasize the irony. 

“She deferred to me?” Lind smiles as if quietly pleased. “Well, what that usually means is that Dulci is feeling too shy and polite to decline. But don’t take it personally – her shift ends late and she probably just knows she’ll be tired.”

_ You don’t like that. Got you. _ Lind has sent Judith after L and B twice now, and yet here he is, quick to snatch her away, implying that she’s not interested. _ But now you’re worried that she is.  _

“You sure you’re not her pimp, then?” L follows the question with a quick scoff under his breath, enough for Lind to shrug the accusation off as a joke.

Still, he steps closer to search L’s eyes. “Does Brian know that you came here to see her?“ 

_ Taking up personal space to establish dominance _ . Fortunately, it doesn’t bother L in the least. "Of course he knows. It would be unwise of me to sneak around on him here, of all places, seeing as he’s acquainted with both of you." 

Simultaneously nodding and reaching up, Lind yanks a chain and the hallway is flooded with bright light. Footsteps creak below and the bouncer appears at the bottom of the stairs, his nose swollen and purple. "Everything alright? I tried to stop that guy from going up there.” He points at L with a scowl. 

“It’s fine, Dennis. Thank you.” Lind gives the man a mild smile until he slinks away, then snaps his attention back to L. “Do you know what your eyes did just now?”

“Blink? Bright lights and all that.”

Lind shakes his head slowly, his smile bearing a trace of genuine satisfaction  – one that sets the hairs at the back of L’s neck on edge. “They didn’t do anything. Your pupils are blown. Fully dilated.”

L waits. 

“I noticed that you barely touched your pie, despite having eaten several cupcakes at last night’s lecture. Also…” His eyes flick downward. “When your not hiding them in your pockets, your hands have a very subtle tremor.”

L’s already racing pulse crawls up his throat. He doesn’t like this – being fingered as a drug user. Worse, being seen so clearly – by a two-bit con man, no less. _ This isn’t supposed to happen. _ But it has, and there’s no use denying it. Liam wouldn’t be any more ashamed than L is.

He manages not to change his expression (he hopes) and merely shrugs instead. “I don’t need anything at the moment, if you’re offering." 

"Except Dulcinea, of course.” Lind’s smile thins out in an unflattering way. “Actually – you’re more than welcome to her company, and you can tell her I said as much." 

L nods and gives Lind’s outstretched hand a brief shake, deal struck. "Cheers, mate.”

_ ‘Hope to see you at the next event…’ _ are the words he hears follow him down the stairs. 

Though she’s still doing her waitressing rounds, Judith’s eyes catch him almost as soon as he enters the club.

“Hi.” She pulls him by the shoulder, away from the hubbub. “What did Malik say?” A mixture of eagerness and worry wafts off her like bad perfume. 

“Oh, he said yes.” L gives her a lopsided smile, back in the grip of calm certainty. He’s sure that she wants him, but he’s also sure that she doesn’t want Malik to let her go so easily. “It was surprisingly easy to convince him." 

"Oh.” A swallow travels down the slim column of her throat. “I see." 

"I see,” she repeats. 

L tries not to let his smile show. 

* * *

 

B barely registers the walk back to their house, trying to block out flashes of old memories and monsters.  _ And the one that just won’t fuck off.  _ The night air feels stagnant and suffocating and he resists the urge to clap his hands over his ears as Nirae shadows him, speculating in her high, raspy voice over the noise of the night.

“You always did seem to attract the types to die young. The right human to be a shinigami, if I thought there was any meaning to it. Guess that’s why you’re still holding on to the eyes.”

B feels a wave of revulsion roll over him, and he almost tells her to  _ just take them. _ But he holds his tongue.  _ Look, you need the eyes, and Lawliet needs them. L needs them, and needs you.  _

_ This is just a test. A subconscious test. Another hallucination _ . B almost tripped over his feet turning onto their quiet lane, past a small graveyard that Nirae swooped in and out of. But she still settled back behind him, cackling. 

“You know, you humans have a lot of funny ideas about who’s to blame for death. But you played your part leading him to slaughter just as well as anyone, didn’t you, Beyond?” 

_ I know that. I’ve know that since I was a kid and I don’t think about that anymore, I  _ can’t  _ think about that anymore.  _ The streetlight casts are painted with faces from when he was a kid, when he was in Mexico, flashes of Lawliet, grey-faced in the Lant Street case.  _ Christ, I can’t take this right now. _ He stares at the dark door of their home. 

_ But where the hell can I go?  _

He steels himself, opens the door, and walks in. Nirae follows.  _ Fuck. _

“Still thinking about my offer? I want to make sure you’re considering it,” her bone-wings clatter. 

B closes his eyes, then climbs the stairwell to where his sketchbook lies in the waiting on the bedside. He lies on the bed and carves out the old memories at the edge of his vision, and while Nirae doesn’t leave, she at least stays quiet.  _ Small fucking mercies. _

B’s heart leaps when he hears the door slam just under an hour later. He steps past Nirae, who still has yet to take her leave. Hunched and shadow eyed at the foot of the stairs is the person who’s always been able to sort out his mysteries.  _ Or at least make them seem…less terrifying. _

“Lawliet,” he tries to search for a normal question, then simply pulls him close into a tight hug, trying to let the smell and nearness of him ground him with  _ something _ . Lawliet tenses, but for the most part allows the contact. 

“How’d it go with the bartender?” 

“Shit. And his death date was today. No, I didn’t kill him,” B shakes his head tiredly, “He was shot by a mugger. Probably on the way to Tailor, I don’t know. I learned a bit.”

“Good,” Lawliet squeezes his hand and disentangles slightly.  _ L is eager for the case. But shit. I need Lawliet right now. _ B grips his hand tighter.

“I had company when I was with him,” he can’t quite bring himself to say her name outright. Not while she’s studying them both with beady-black eyes from the top of the stair.  _ Lawliet believed she could be real but… _

_ What does that mean if she is? _

* * *

 

“Company?” L flinches, jumpiness flooding through him now that the focus of his meeting with Judith, with Lind, is behind him. “Did someone see you?” That would go a ways in explaining why B has a near death-grip on his hand.

“No…” A wrinkle of worry deepens between B’s eyebrows. “Nirae.” 

Before he can stop himself, L’s shoulders sag in relief. He masks it by shuffling to the living room sofa and tucking himself into the corner. “So… she was there? Did she say anything?”

B nods and settles in next to L, though he holds himself at a slight distance. “She’s here now,” he flinches visibly, "She laughed. Said it’s funny you’re not afraid of ghosts. Or shinigami.”

“Funny?” he lifts an eyebrow. “I suppose to her, it would be.” Hunching over, L massages his temple and tries to orient his thoughts, divided as they are. He wants to ask what B learned from the bartender. Wants to tell B about Judith, about “Jefferson” and Mrs. Darbonne. He also wants to chase B’s monsters away, but he’s beginning to doubt that he can.  _ I’m not imagining that it’s getting worse. _

_ But if I start thinking that, B will see it. That can’t happen. _

At last, he lifts his head. This time, he’s the one to take B’s hand. “Okay. What’s your biggest concern right now–what she says? Or whether or not she’s real?” 

"Yeah, whether she’s real. Voices I can deal with. I know what those are. This….she’s just different. I think. I don’t know.” 

“I believe there’s a way to confirm whether she’s real or not, if she’ll cooperate.” L feels slightly mad, bargaining with a monster he can’t see. He reminds himself that B feels that way most of the time. Winding around the dining room table, he disappears into the kitchen and takes a deep breath.  _ You better be real, monster.  _ He reminds himself that the death dates have never been wrong. Ever.

_ But if this doesn’t work…I might end up making things a lot worse.  _

He opens the refrigerator and takes out a jar of large kosher pickles, unscrewing it and giving it an unsavory sniff. Even so, he manages to remove one and take a big bite out of it. “Alright, Nirae,” He calls out, blinking up at the fluorescent light. “B can’t see me right now, so can you please tell him what I’m eating?” 

He half chews the pickle, then finally spits it into the sink, wiping the back of his mouth with his sleeve. 

“Strawberries,” B says, just as L straightens up.

He freezes where he stands, the taste of pickle juice gone rancid in his mouth, cold in his belly.

* * *

Reality spins in and out of B’s eyes like a flickering film reel. He focuses on Nirae, of all things, as Lawliet leaves the room. She pokes her head in curious and ever birdlike despite her ragdoll limbs.  _ How’s he gonna see her?  _ Then he hears Lawliet’s voice float out from the kitchen. 

_ “B can’t see me right now, so can you please tell him what I’m eating?”  _

Nirae cocks her head and cackles, then half walks, half hops to the kitchen.

“Strawberries.” she whispers with a macabre grin. B digs his nails into the velvet of the couch. 

“Strawberries,” he repeats. No answer.

B stays in the living room,gripping his knees, till Lawliet comes out. Sucking on a strawberry of all things.  _ Thank Christ. _ B’s shoulders relax, and Lawliet smiles in a wan sort of way. 

“Want some?” Lawliet offers, face blank and tired, “Looks like your shinigami is real.”

“Shit. Guess so,” he glances back to Nirae, who widens her dark, filmy eyes. Then she laughs, laughs and spreads her bony wings to take to the skies. B doesn’t flinch.  _ If I have to live with her, might as well start now. _

“She’s gone. She just…flew out,” he half-laughs in relief, “Thank god.”

“Yes. That is good,” Lawliet takes his hand gently, folding his palm into a soft grip.  _ Don’t worry too much about me. Monsters, I can handle. _

B squeezes his hand, “I dunno what it means, that she’s real….but I’ve figured the rules out before, and I can do it again. Thanks for doing this, though. You’ve always got the right ideas.”

B turns to kiss him on the cheek, Lawliet flinching slightly for a moment.  _ Must be the speed making him twitchy. _ B barely lingers on that thought before Lawliet pulls him in for an urgent, desperate kiss.  _ Shit. This must be getting to him as much as it is me. Unless it’s something he learned out there? _ B pulls back, letting his hand rest briefly on Lawliet’s face before dropping it. 

“So. Uh. Tell me what you learned about the case?”

* * *

 

_ The case. Yes, yes, let’s get back to the case, _ L’s mind chants in relief. Back to the case, and away from B’s warm, all-too-real gratitude, smothering him in shame. The strawberries have done nothing to wash away the acid taste of pickle from his mouth.

_ Did I lie for him or for me? What’s harder to live with? A world where monsters are real, or your boyfriend is mad?  _

The questions rise like snakes in his brain. He banishes them by journeying purposefully to the study, plopping into the slightly musty armchair and curling his bare toes around the edge of the desk. The knotty wood is cold and reassuring against his skin.

“I did see Judith, but I didn’t sleep with her. I did make advances, but she indicated she belonged to Malik and that he was in charge of her.” He probes his bottom lip, at last finding it easier to slip back into the neat symmetry of investigation.  

B perches on the end of the room’s other armchair and nods, relief flickering in his eyes again. L would stop to ponder it, but – no, _ report and debrief _ .

“So I left the club and went upstairs to see Mr. Tailor himself. He was with Cosette, or ‘Mrs. Darbonne,’ as he called her. I would describe her as an eccentric Southern Belle stuck in a bygone era, feasting off her own delusions. She also seems to believe that Lind is her nephew, Jefferson Coutee.”

“No shit? Another alias?“ 

L shrugs limply. “He played it off as if he was simply playing along with one of her delusions, but Mrs. Darbonne is wealthy, probably funding his pursuits in some way. I suspect that he did in fact convince her that he was Jefferson Coutee.” He makes a mental note to have Q and Lenny dig up everything they can on that name. “I indicated that I was interested in spending some time with ‘Dulcinea’ and he seemed agreeable enough." 

He doesn’t tell B that Lind took him for an addict. He doesn’t tell because he’s already – or nearly – forgotten it. 

"But I think the wedge between them is growing, and will continue to do so, whether I sleep with her or not.” L thinks back to the way she gulped and swallowed when she learned how freely her boyfriend had handed her over. “Malik had a chance to prove himself, prove his loyalty to her, and I’m quite sure that from where she stands, he failed.”

“Too many balls in the air,” B supposes, digging through his pockets for a cigarette. “He’s bound to fuck up and not give her the kind of attention she wants." 

"Exactly,” L nods. He watches B’s features briefly flare up in the glow of the lighter, beautiful but haunted. “What about you? Did the bartender say anything we can use?” 

* * *

 

“Well, he told Tailor you’re a Lord, for one. Sounded like an invention, to sweeten Tailor up. Tailor is supplying him drugs,” B grimaces, “Or he was.”

“Mm. Tailor is keen to assume identities he think will benefit him.” 

B lights up the cigarette, noting the way Lawliet’s eyes narrow, “You think he’ll go after you? He doesn’t know shit about who we are.”

“No. I suppose he does not,” Lawliet frowns, then smirks just a tiny bit, “We do have that advantage over him, thanks to you.”

“Yeah.”

B takes the first drag hard.  _ What my eyes know is important. So maybe what Nirae knows could be important too.  _ Her offer is itching at his subconscious, but he pushes that thought away.  _ Lawliet needs the eyes, and I need Lawliet.  _

“He also froze up when I mentioned Karla and Ethan– just offhand. They’re definitely hiding something, and from the panic in his eyes, I’d say it was murder.”

_ Too bad I didn’t know their dates, could have been sure.  _ He takes a bite of a strawberry, letting it wash the taste of ash from his lips. Lawliet’s eyes linger on him long enough for him to tilt his head.  _ Everything okay? _

Lawliet stands up, “Let’s go contact Q and Lenny, and see what a cursory search gives us about  Jefferson Coutee.”

“Right, yeah.” he follows Lawliet up the stairs, the action feeling natural with the rhythm of the case. Lawliet has the laptop open in a few keystrokes while B studies the empty shelf, thinking about what Nirae mentioned about their little ghost.  _ Watch out for the boy… and Lawliet can see him too.  _

“What the fuck?” Lawliet is aghast, staring at his laptop like his jaw might fall off.

“What’s wrong?”

“Someone’s hacked into my laptop. And been through all the case files.” 

“Hacked…how?” B’s head was spinning, knowing the level of security Lawliet had towards his case files, it was an impressive feat.  _ Jeevas set up some of those protocols himself…anything that would trigger an alert would lock out a user from the case files right away.  _

“How the hell did they do it?”

* * *

 

L stars at the letters and words swimming before his eyes, his mouth still hung open in disbelief. “They’d have to know decryption,” he says faintly, the faint fear crawling through his stomach finally boiling over into anger. “Or perhaps they watched me do it.” He glances up at the ceiling, then down each lumpy plaster wall. The old house suddenly seems full of nooks and crannies to stick surveillance equipment, which Lind has already shown himself to be familiar with. 

And then there’s the child he saw, too – the squatter. But he couldn’t have been more than seven. Far too young to decrypt computer files. 

L is on his feet in a single breath, pushing chairs aside and shoving dressers, his fingers running over every uneven seam in the wallpaper. “Help me check,” he mumbles to B, his long finger prodding into a hole in the plaster and finding nothing. He tears the closet door open and starts tossing clothes aside.

“For what? Cameras? A bug?” B rises uncertainly from the bed, but does obligingly climb onto it so he can check the light fixture. “If Lind was to send someone to read your files, you think he’d want you to know about it? Leaving them all open like that?”

“As a power play, perhaps.” But B’s words plant enough doubt to take the wind out of his sails. He stops rummaging through the closet and returns to the laptop, bringing up the case file on Ethan and Karla.

It’s filled with everything he’s found out so far. Not just on the victims, but on Lind L. Tailor, on Judith West, on everyone else they’d seen at the lecture. He scrolls through page after page, looking for any changes or alterations. After a moment, B’s shadow lights his shoulder as he leans over to watch. “What’s that?” he flicks his finger out toward the screen. “You don’t type like that.” 

L props a finger between his lips. “No, I don’t.” 

Beneath L’s typed transcript of Lind’s lecture on vampirism, Voodoo, and magic, are the following words:

a r c a d i a n   f o l k   m a g i c k   a n d   l o r e 

b y   d o c t o r   j o a n n a   h e w i t t 

a r c a d i a n   b o o k s

“Arcadian Books. We went there. It’s on Orleans Street or thereabouts.” 

“I remember.” The earlier panic has melted away, replaced with confusion and mild intrigue. “We should stop by tomorrow.” 

L wonders if he’s been left a clue. 

But then, by who? 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who indeed, dear readers :0 
> 
> Sorry for the long time on the update (if anyone is out there, hehe). Love to hear thoughts always :)


	6. April 11, 2000

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potentially triggering flashback to CSA in this chapter.

**April 11, 2000**

_ Arcadian Books and Prints _ takes a little bit of wandering to find the next day. Tucked under a slightly rusted awning with peeling blue paint on the shutter doors, B eventually spots the sign creaking in the wind.

“Back to being tourists again, huh?” B tries to keep the mood light, but he can tell Lawliet barely slept the night before. 

“Seems like. As Karla and Ethan were,” Lawliet’s wide, shadowed eyes twitched. They still had Tailor’s little ‘ _ get-together’  _ to attend later that night, too.  _ But L has done worse before.  _

B had seen him do worse, and that hadn’t ended well.  _ Wanted this trip to be something different.  _ It dawns on him all of a sudden, how seamlessly they’d fallen back into the case, back into what B had been running from.  _ But it’s different, isn’t it? _

It feels safer, at least, watching Lawliet chat quietly with the store owner while he muses over a shelf full of editions of  _ The Iliad.  _ He’s already on edge, so he manages not to jump when Nirae materializes through a bookcase. 

_Ghosts in the Stacks [do not edit or repost]_

“Bookish Beyond Birthday,” she cackles, “Your mother liked alliteration, didn’t she, Beyond?”

B clenches his teeth, still an instinct whenever someone brings up his mother.  _ Come on. Find out what she’s after. _

“You’re hanging around more.”

“Chatty, aren’t you?” she grins with her stitched-lip sarcasm. B rolls his eyes.

“Will you fuck off if I give you your eyes back?” 

“You won’t, will you, Beyond,” her stitches stretch when she calls his bluff, “Though it might not help you much, right now. The boy  _ is _ trying to help, but who knows what he might do. The dates won’t help you there.”

B chews at his knuckles, trying to decide what she means.  _ It’s like she’s talking in riddles– but they’re not riddles to her.  _

“Funny that you can’t know your day, just as I don’t know mine,” she mumbles, cocking her head at the books.

“I remember yours,” she turns to Lawliet, a malicious half-smile on her face, “I wonder if anything will happen if I tell you. If anyone will hear. Such a great secret we shinigami hold.”

She hunkers in close to him, eyes bulging, “But  _ then. _ I’ve already broken rules for you, Beyond. You’re more shinigami than I am.” 

He doesn’t flinch away, to his credit, as she leans closer. With a breathy rasp, she whispers the date in his ear. B almost drops the book he’s holding. 

_ Lawliet’s death day. Shit. _

* * *

 

In his whole life, L has never seen such a ramshackle, disorganized business. Books tower in all corners, some lined up precariously on makeshift shelves that he has to duck under, praying all the while that they don’t topple down on his head. He leaves B near the relative safety of the entrance and winds his way toward the til near the back, where a disheveled man studies a battered ledger book. 

“Hello,” L says, clearing his throat several times until the man looks up, the lenses of his glasses so smeary it’s a wonder how he sees through them. 

“Can I help you?“ 

“Yes, I’m looking for a book.” L hands him a slip of paper with Joanna Hewitt’s name. “ _ Arcadian Folk Magick and Lore _ .” The corners of his mouth turn down rather doubtfully, anticipating disappointment. 

The man grunts and scratches at his tufty hair. “This is a rare one. Out of print now, but worthless. Not one I’d bother with." 

L leans forward, eyes widening. "You have a copy, then?" 

"I did. Sold it about eight months ago.” He sniffs and pushes his glasses up his nose. “To a feller who looked a bit like you. Older, though." 

L smiles grimly. So this is the source of Lind’s ‘expertise’ – an out of print book that was probably read by a mere handful of people. 

_ And, apparently, the person who looked through my computer.  _

It’s unsettling, still. Almost unsettling as Lind himself. Earlier that morning, Lenny called L with what she found on Jefferson Coutee, who tragically died of a heroin overdose over two years ago.  _ And I know who gave him the drugs, then stole his identity.  _

"Would you be able to track me down a volume? I can offer good money for it." 

The bookseller looks down at his ledger, then back up at L. 

"How much?” 

“I’d need it very quickly. Five hundred dollars.” 

The man nearly drops his pen. “There’s someone I can call in Lafayette who should have a copy.”

“Brilliant.” L digs through his pockets and finds his money clip, flinging five fifties at the man. “Half now, the rest on delivery.” 

He barely notices the treacherous towers of books as he makes his way back to the front, but drags his feet to a stop when he sees B hissing –  _ whispering _ – at thin air. 

Swallowing, L does his best to shed the look of concern that’s no doubt sprung upon his face. “Everything alright?” 

* * *

 

“Yeah,” B doesn’t want to speak about Nirae with the shop owner, though he seems more interested in stuffing Lawliet’s bills in a copy of  _ Catch-22.  _ He swallows his worry right down to his elevated heartbeat.  _ Maybe it means something. Maybe she’s fucking with me. _

_ His date is right there, after all. Though if I have her eyes…can she see his date? _ He blinks at the numbers, remembering sharply when they’d first met, how they seemed so far away.  _ Am I really gonna get all those years with him? _

B didn’t want to think too hard about that, though it almost seemed hopeful. Lawliet reaches for his hand in a jerky, forced manner. B shakes out of his reverie.

“Uh. Did you get the book?”

“We’ll have it soon,” it’s subtle, but the way Lawliet’s gaze flicks away from his face tugs at B’s concern further.  _ Worried about the case? Or about tonight? _

“Alright with you?” he squeezes Lawliet’s hand. Lawliet nods seriously. B attempts to smile, “You wanna get the car?”

“Yeah.”

The drive over to the Garden district is quiet and thoughtful, with a soupy haze starting to settle over the city. B turns a little too early on a side street.  _ Figure I should say something about her. We’re gonna figure that out together too.  _ He takes a deep breath of the humid air, trying to gather the words to explain.

“It was Nirae in the store. She wanted to talk about…the dates.”

“Yes?” Lawliet studied the street through the convertible windshield, licking his lips gently. 

“Shit. She told me my date was the same as yours, Lawliet,” B slows to an idle on a side street. The wind whistles, giving a momentary respite from the stagnant air, “I don’t know what that means.”

* * *

 

The engine is still running, and L has the distinct feeling that B won’t kill it until they can talk about this – talk about Nirae.  _ Nirae, the vision that is probably just that – a vision.  _

"Dying on the same day sounds good,” L says, choosing his words carefully. “If rather convenient.”  _ Is the vision a way to soothe the uncertainty surrounding his own death date? Or to soothe me?  _ L has always hated that B knows his death date (a long time from now, L’s been assured) but not his own. “What motive would she have in sharing this with you, though?" 

B gnaws at his knuckles, his voice slightly muffled. "Dunno. Seems like she just wants to mess with me sometimes. The only thing she ever talks about is death, really.”

L gently pulls B’s hand away from his mouth. “But we’re alive, yeah?” He gives him a small smile that B hesitantly mirrors back.

“Yeah.” He kills the engine and takes in a bracing breath. “Might as well see what Tailor’s con is tonight. More dead animals, you think?”

“Some ostentatious display, no doubt.” L slams the convertible door shit and squints through the lowering sunlight, casting his gaze on the rather shabby antebellum mansion across the street. It’s barely visible behind a pair of towering live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss. A rusty fence circles the property, and one of Lind’s lackeys minds the front gate while smoking a cigarette, nodding as they approach. 

“Head on in.”

They do just that, entering through a pair of giant double doors that open into a grand hallway with parlors on either side. Though impeccably clean, the space has seen better days. The expensive furniture is threadbare and the squeaky floorboards in need of a polish. The lighting is low, most of it candles, and a cluster of people are chattering in the parlor to L’s left. Among the dozen or so people milling about, L recognizes at least eight followers from the lecture. Lind himself is nowhere to be seen, and neither is Judith.

“I suppose we’ll have to endure a grand entrance,” L says to B in a low voice, and they exchange a quick smirk while easing into the crowd.

“Good evening!” A voice echoes from somewhere above, and everyone turns toward it. Lind stands on the landing of the massive staircase as if it’s a stage, flanked on either side by a woman – one of them Judith.  

Her eyes fly to L and B immediately, her face fighting back a frown and failing. 

* * *

 

B has to smirk at Tailor’s theatrics– but the room is well set for it.  _ Stage magician surrounded by his audience. But then, he’s more dangerous than that. _ B has had a handful of cases with mobsters and bosses who enjoyed surrounding themselves with sycophants. With a woman on each arm and a few lumpy-looking middle-aged men eagerly hanging on to his every word. 

_ But he’s smart enough not to listen to only what he wants to hear. _ Or he woudn’t have gotten this far. 

The whole place stands at attention as Tailor descends the staircase, the voices petering out to silence. Tailor smiles, gesturing to a table of printed pages, “We have a few new devotees to the art of Voodoo amoung us. Please welcome Liam and Brian, one of whom has crossed the pond to see our humble explorations into the academic and the occult.” 

The attendees turn in the direction of Tailor’s pointing.  _ Great, drawing attention to us. _ Tentative applause sounds, and B meets it with a shy smile. Lawliet raises an eyebrow at Tailor, who raises a glass of cheap champagne that Judith has passed to him.  _ Fucker. _

“Please also welcome Wanda, Martin, and Peter. As always, the non-disclosure agreements are on the coffee tables there, and there. Everyone will sign if they are to proceed with the night’s activities. For those new here, there is no obligation to sign and you may leave if you cannot do so. The events of the night will begin in fifteen minutes. For the moment, enjoy the estate.” 

He gestured again, being met by a few respectful almost-bows from what B presumes are the regulars. Lawliet is the first to the table with the nondisclosure agreement, scanning it with comically bugged-out eyes. Tailor feigns disinterest–  _ but I can see you watching from the corner of your eye.  _

B catches the crossing of Lawliet’s pinky and middle finger, tapping twice.  _ Safe to go forward. _ Seeing as Tailor isn’t asking for identification, the name on there won’t be binding, no matter what it says. ‘Brian’ plays the role of eager, dumb boyfriend, signing the page that ‘Liam’ passes to him without a second glance. A few of the newcomers have frowns on their faces, and at least two of them leave with shaking heads. 

After exactly fifteen minutes pass, Lawliet presents their so-called agreements to Tailor with an air of impatience.  _ So show us your hand. _ B smiles warmly at Judith, who ducks and looks away. Tailor looks somewhat pleased at the hurt look that B fakes.  _ He’s good at bluffing, but Lawliet and I are better. _

Once the pages are gathered and all are clustered at the base of the stair, Tailor steps up to a particularly gaudy wooden statue marred with metal. Judith lingers around the edge of the stair, watching Tailor warily. He smiles at the crowd, and presses in an innocuous nail. B watches Judith shift slightly in his peripheral vision.

Behind Tailor, a door slips open from the ornate paneling beneath the stairs, revealing a second, narrow staircase lit by flaming sconces.  _ Lord, he is into the drama, isn’t he? _

“After my guests,” Tailor steps aside to let the crowd descend. 

* * *

 

The dark walls of the slim staircase are made of blood-colored rosewood, close enough to feel claustrophobic, and lead up to a dark, mouldy antechamber that Lind makes them wait inside while he dramatically rattles a ring of keys.

“Your house has secret passages?” A curious female – Wanda – ask, blinking in the candlelight. 

Lind smiles in a particularly patronizing way. “It may appear as such, but I’m told that my ancestral home was a stop on the Underground Railroad. This room was used to hide runaway slaves before the Civil War.” 

B gives L a sharp nudge that nearly makes L break out in a laugh. Lind’s ancestors were slave traders, as the investigation has show them, but it’s fitting that Lind would try to revise that particular history, too. 

The antechamber opens up on a large but cozy room draped in rich (but again, a tad threadbare) curtains, the floor covered in low seating, cushions, and plush rugs. “Make yourselves comfortable, everyone.” Lind sweeps an arm around the room. “Dulcinea and Summer will be coming around with absinthe and wine.” 

L and B crouch together on a low futon big enough for two, watching as Lind’s other disciples stake out clearly favored spots, smiling and reaching for the small glasses of liquor. A man with rusty-colored dreadlocks starts passing around a long, thin-handled pipe that burns with a cloyingly acrid scent. “Hashish?” 

Glancing at B, L shrugs and takes a mid-sized hit off the pipe. Lind already thinks of ‘Liam’ as a drug-using partier – besides, both L and B are wired. If his brain misses anything, the tech will get it for him. 

“Enjoy yourselves, everyone.” Lind raises a glass of absinthe, though L notes that he has yet to touch his lips to it. “It’s good to relax, to open your mind, but equally important to keep hold of your senses.” From a speaker somewhere, ambient, vaguely-exotic music plays at a low level. 

While the others mingle and ‘relax,’ Lind rolls out a patterned rug in the middle of the room, anchoring each top corner with a heavy magnet, and each bottom corner with a chunk of quartz. Murmuring words that L supposes are pure nonsense, he lights a bundle of sage and waves it over the rug, blowing the smoke and then dropping the sage into a copper bowl. Everyone goes quiet, watching him. 

“I’ve finished preparations for tonight’s ritual demonstration, a commune with the Spirit world.” His eyes glitter as he looks solemnly at his small audience. “For the sake of authenticity, I would like to ask for a volunteer who is new to our numbers.” Lind avoids looking at L, but Judith doesn’t. Even from several feet away, L can see that her eyes are huge and pinned to L, silently asking him to stay silent.

“I’ll do it.” L raises a lazy hand. “I volunteer.”

* * *

 

B almost coughs on the hash pipe when Lawliet speaks up beside him.  _ Christ, Lawliet, guess we’re throwing the cautious approach to the wind. _ Not that B has a much better sense of self-preservation, but taking Tailor’s drugs  _ and  _ walking into his ritual seemed like a recipe for disaster.

“I admire your boldness. Could I also ask for the assistance of Wendy, Peter, and Dulcinea, to further interpret our spiritual conduit,” he directs them along the corners of the rug, “Wendy, to the east, Peter, to the West, Dulcinea to the South, and I shall direct from the south. Liam, if you could face Dulcinea from the center. There.”

B swallows, grateful that he is seated in the ‘south’, giving him a decent view of both Lawliet and Malik. Lawliet remains impassive, while Lind articulates more mumbo-jumbo while waving the sage stick around Lawliet.  _ He’s awful serious about it. Definitely sells it _ . The rest of the room was eating it up, too

“Please spread your arms, Liam. We await contact from the spirit Ghede to see we shall be received,” Tailor closes his eyes with a hypnotic form of concentration. B watches Lawliet make an approximation of curiosity mixed with skepticism for his audience. _ He’s so exposed up there _ . B bites his lip and stares at Lawliet’s death date.  _ So he’s safe enough. _

_ And hopefully, so am I. _

A hum goes through the room that makes B flinch, then giggle nervously, to stay in character.  _ Definitely from some hidden speakers _ . But perhaps it’s all in the timing, since Tailor rolls his eyes back and open, drawing in a dramatic breath.

“We receive the spirit of the departed Voodoo devotee Felicite Paris. It is an honour to be in her presence. She speaks to us through the breath, through the touch, through the body of our humble devotee Liam,” Tailor gestures dramatically towards Lawliet, which almost makes B laugh again, “My spiritual conduits, if you could make contact. Feel his nervous system respond to the commands of the spirit. Wendy, Peter, each put your left hands to his. Dulcinea, to his heart.”

B can’t see Judith’s face as she steps inside Lawliet’s space, one hand on his heart. But Lawliet’s glib smile looks a little too forced for his liking.  _ There’s no stopping this now, though, is there? _

“Our humblest welcome, Madame Paris. Will you receive our questions tonight? The East shall be our affirmative, the West, our negative. Fear not for Liam, as Dulcinea is well practiced in monitoring the contact of course.”

He raises his head, staring directly at Judith. Lawliet clears his throat, “I feel I am in good hands.”

After a moment of silence, Wendy screeches slightly, “I think I felt his arm twitch!”

* * *

 

Supine on the rug, L casts a furrowed expression up at Wendy. “But I didn’t move.” 

“This is why you’re the ideal conduit,” Lind announces, his gaze traveling around the room to ensure that the others are listening. “A skeptical mindset ensures that the conduit’s response is genuine and involuntary. Dulcinea?” 

Judith licks her lips and gives Tailor a slight nod. “There was a half-inch movement to the East.” 

L lifts his eyebrows, amazed that he has become, in essence, a type of human Ouija board. “How do you know my arm didn’t just fall asleep and twitch?” He laces the question with just enough interest to light up Lind’s eyes. 

“Only continuing the contact will make that clear. Now, please, close your eyes and lie still. The more relaxed you are, the more the channels open.” His voice is soft and limpid, and L’s eyes close, giving in to the farce. 

Lind continues to ask Madame Paris questions in a soothing voice, as if coaxing answers from a stubborn child. Wendy’s hand is cold against one of L’s hands, Peter’s hot and sweaty against the other. Lind’s voice and presence looms between his feet, feeling somehow heavy even though L can’t see him through his closed lids. Judith’s hand presses into the center of his chest. Her touch is light enough, but even so, it feels strange. 

“Did you give yourself to the Loa Ghede in death, Madame Paris?” The question is followed with rapt silence. Ghede, L dimly recalls, is the Loa associated with death and sexuality. 

“Whoa.” Wendy pulls in a sudden breath.

“An inch and half lift to the East,” Judith reports.  

_ I didn’t move. I know I didn’t.  _ L shuts his eyes tighter even as he feels a clammy sweat drip down the back of his neck. The weight on the center of his chest feels heavier than ever, pinning him in place. How could his body be moving when he’s being held down like this?  

_ ‘You should have seen yourself…you were so, so good.’ _

It’s not Tailor’s voice, but one that coils through the distant ashes of L’s memory like a snake, a flicking tongue invading his ear. “No,” he mumbles, not knowing why. 

“Shh, you’re alright.” A hand rubs circles into his sternum, pushing him further and further into the carpet. 

_ ‘It’s alright, it’s alright. Nearly over.’ _

The words slide like a needle under L’s skin and he thrashes his whole body loose, his left arm hitting flesh and bone as a voice cries out in protest – only to be entirely drowned out by L’s violent screams.

* * *

 

Lawliet’s screams strike a cold, awful place within B, forcing him to his feet. He barely notices when he shoves Judith to the floor roughly, yelling something indistinct.  _ Come on Lawliet, stay with me, what the hell did they do? Poison? _ The others are still closing in on Lawliet while B desperately tries to get to him. 

“Jesus Christ, move back!” B screams at Wendy. At B’s touch, Lawliet has curled sideways like a sow bug, clutching at his arms and chest. Just breathing.  _ Shit, it’s just like fucking Lant. Like no fucking time has passed at all. _

B has had flashbacks, B is a living flashback, but he’s not prepared for Lawliet to be the one needing protection.  _ Not now _ .  _ Especially with only one handgun and a roomful of fucking cultists. _

“No need for such raised voices – it is unfortunate,” Tailor’s voice at the very least, stops his followers at attention. A hush goes over the room, save for Lawliet’s heavy breathing, “A skeptic is not the ideal conduit for such powerful spiritual energies. Can we get some refreshments, perhaps, for Liam?”

Tailor’s voice is more snide than it is concerned.  _ Oh you got a show, didn’t you? Touch him and I’ll fucking kill you. _ B hovers around Lawliet, praying touch will bring him out of it rather than the other way around. He puts a hand on Lawliet’s back, and Lawliet flinches violently before going limp. B’s gut clenches and he leans in, taking in Judith’s stare in his peripheral vision.

“Get me out of here,” Lawliet half-hisses in his ear, and B knows what to do with  _ that _ at least. He slips his arm under Lawliet’s as gently as he can, hauling him upright.

“I’ve got you,” he mumbles, and thank Christ Lawliet can at least walk.  

“You’re in no state to leave,” Tailor falters as a shocked murmer goes through the room, “Allow me to provide a space for you to recover, I understand these experiences can be overwhelming–” 

“Get out of my fucking way,” B growls in a tone he knows is  _ far _ too threatening for his character,  _ but hell, it gets the job done, doesn’t it? _ Tailor blanches for a half a moment and steps aside, to curious titters from his sycophants. B spares a half a murderous look before beginning to help Lawliet step by step up the staircase. 

_ I’ll be back to fucking cut his eyes out if he had anything to do with this. _

* * *

 

It feels like someone else is operating L’s body, like a spirit really did slip in and is somehow cranking his muscles and bones through the mansion’s hidden passageway and out into the street, assembling his joints into a sitting position in the passenger seat of the convertible.

An ocean roar fills his skull, nearly blanking out his vision. Hiss, crash, hiss.

_ Hiss. _

_ Crash. _

_ Hiss. _

After some time – he doesn’t know how much – he becomes more aware of cool air on his skin than the roar in his head.  _ That’s just the surge of blood and adrenaline _ , says a flat voice that reminds him of Saskia’s.

“Lawliet – Jesus.” B’s white-knuckling the steering wheel, idling at a red light.

“We left?” L tilts his head to one side, knocking it against the car window.

“Yeah, you…” B trails off and swallows.

L looks away. “I know.“ 

He remembers enough of it. He remembers this  _ feeling _ , though it’s been some time since it’s invaded his sleep and dreams.  _ But I wasn’t asleep. _ Only half-aware of his own shaking limbs, he draws his knees to his chest and toys with the fleeting idea that Lind L. Tailor really is some kind of dark magician.  

Not so fleeting – the idea of Lind L. Tailor dropping dead into a crumpled heap, the arrogant light in his eyes snuffed out like a blown candle. 

The cold anger shakes him almost as much as the heavy, leaden shame.

Gnawing furiously on the end of his thumb, he watches the landscape pass outside without noting a single thing about it. 

“Maybe we should have stayed,” he mumbles, doubling over with the throbbing ache of missed opportunity. 

* * *

 

“Fuck, no we shouldn’t have. You were barely there, Lawliet,” he breaks off, seeing the way Lawliet’s face darkens for a moment, unable to meet his eyes.  _ Look, you’re more important than any damn case. _ He bites the thought back, “Let’s get home. Hopefully he didn’t spike any of us with anything.”

“I shouldn’t have touched the hashish.”

Yeah, but it’s done, isn’t it? B wants very badly to reach for Lawliet, to give him even the smallest hint of comfort.  _ You’re just gonna make things worse. Just like before. Oh god.  _ He keeps his hands white knuckled to the wheel, trying to steady his breathing in the soupy air.

When they get inside, Lawliet takes the stairs two at a time. B can see the way he leans heavily on the bannister, and tries to keep close _. Not too close. Lawliet’s not doing well with touch right now.  _ But to B’s surprise, he doesn’t turn into the bedroom to lie down, but heads straight for the study, spinning the dial on the safe. B sighs, leaning on the door frame.

“Christ Lawliet, just rest a minute. That’s got to be a hell of a shock,”

“I’m fine,” Lawliet gets the laptop out, arranging himself in a squat at the desk, and licking at his fingertips.

_ Like hell you’re fine.  _ B runs a hand through his hair, exhaustion starting to get to him as well.  _ But like hell I’m going to be able to rest when he’s like this _ .

“You need anything right now?”

“What I need is for the case to be making progress,” Lawliet barely looks up at him, hands shaking slightly even as he starts to typing. Frustration bubbles up in B. _ Look, you can’t be L all the fucking time, Lawliet.  _ But he was already deep in it, retreating to his space of clean lines and keyboards where the cases were just files, another name on the ledger of the Great Detective L.  _ And yeah, cases take some skin off my back sometimes too. But I know what it’s like to feel like you can’t stop. _

_ And that’s exactly when you have to. _

B takes out his notebook, sits down on the floor, trying to gather details from the Tailor residence, but mostly stealing glances at Lawliet. After a moment of silence Lawliet rummages in the drawer, the glint of foil catching B’s eye.  _ Jesus, not more of that too? _ B swallows, forcing his voice even.

“You really think that’s a good idea right now?”

* * *

 

The black text against the bright white screen makes L’s head hurt, but he continues to type excessively detailed notes about Lind L. Tailor’s Garden District Home, about the ritual, more or less skipping over his own part in it. Now that the adrenaline has retreated from his bloodstream, he feels tired and wrung-out, shaky with fatigue. Or maybe it’s the Hashish. Only dimly aware of B’s hovering in the background, he sweeps his hand through a drawer and finds some foil-wrapped dexy.

"You really think that’s a good idea right now?”

L stuffs the tablets under his tongue and closes his eyes. The doubt in B’s voice – the  _ fucking concern _ – sends prickles of anger up his scalp. He tries to flush it out with a deep breath.

“‘Right now’ is probably the worst time you could ask me that,” he finally says, mildly as he can manage.

“Oh, and any other time that topic is just fine, is it?” B’s tone is snappish enough to shake L to attention, catching his sharp expression before it falters out into something like regret. It’s too late, though – the prickles of anger ripple through his skin again, hardening like ice.

He closes his laptop with deliberate slowness. “Both of us have vices that we’d prefer not to discuss. I do you the courtesy of avoiding yours as a subject of conversation.” He casts his eyes at B but otherwise remains expressionless, only elaborating when he sees B hesitate. “Like Bleak Birdie." 

At that, something goes a little wild and jagged in B’s gaze, flaring with sudden heat. "Fine. You want to talk about the fact that I’m a part time murderer for the Great Detective, you can have all the fucking details.” The words spill out in a desperate tumble, B’s hands cupping his knees so hard that his knuckles whiten. “But I ease off cases when I can’t see straight, and I sure as hell don’t take hit jobs when that happens." 

"I don’t  _ want _ to talk about it,” L spits through his teeth, bothered at how evident it is that B  _ does _ – and has clearly wanted to, probably for ages. “And that’s a lie, anyhow. A told me what you got up to in Mexico, after –” _ after you left me _ . He can’t bring himself to say it, rushes past it. Everything is bubbling up too quickly, not just Silas and Lant Street, but those lonely years apart, those nights when L saw the blood under B’s fingernails and said nothing, just held him so that he would remember who he really was. Not a monster, but a man. 

L rubs at his temples, wishing he could get away from the tide of gnawing memories, and waits for whatever comes next. 

* * *

 

“Oh Jesus Christ Lawliet, you don’t know shit about what Mexico was like,” B is on his feet now, nails digging into his palm, “Did A tell you that i barely came out of that alive? Did you consider that maybe that the fucking reason I don’t go there anymore?”

“It’s not as if I’ve broken up any child pornography rings recently,” whatever drugs are left in Lawliet’s system have fully drained anything human out of him, if he can speak that unflinchingly, “If this is about your visions getting worse,  drop the case if it’s better for you.”

“Oh and I’ve got something I can fucking do about that, can I? Look, I’ve lived with that shit my entire life, Lawliet. And I’ve got it under control because I fucking have to.”

L barely glances at B, eyes fixed on the lines of scrawled case notes, one finger jammed in his mouth.

“I can accept that the visions are a part of the way you have to live, please accept that the drugs are a part of mine,” Lawliet is so blank when he says it, almost like a stranger talking through a computer screen. B wants so badly to grab him and shake him.  _ Hell, don’t you think I’d stop the visions if I could? Don’t you think I tried doing exactly what you’re doing and it didn’t do shit? _

“You really have no fucking clue,” he spits, daring Lawliet to contradict him. Lawliet gets up to leave, and he moves to block the door.  _ You really don’t know what it’s like for every day to be a waking nightmare, and as much as you swallow it down, you know there’s no one in the goddamn world that can stop the fact that you’re going to wake up walking with death and seeing monsters on every goddamn street corner. _

“B. Get out of the way.”

B opens his mouth, all that about to spill out when a sharp rap sounds from the door. They both jump, Lawliet looking strangely brittle for a moment, almost extinguishing the anger burning up B’s throat. And then he pushes past B, quick, jerky movements down the stairs to leave B alone.

B swears, resisting the urge to smash his fist against the wall, and follows.

* * *

 

There’s only one person who could possibly be at their door after dark, and while L is loathe to deal with Judith right now, he can’t help but be grateful for the interruption. B is busting for a fight, and L refuses to give it to him – not now, not after those memories. 

He opens the door and stares at her wordlessly, while B provides a sharp greeting from over his shoulder. “What do you want?” 

She bites on her lip and draws her jacket around her shoulders tightly. “Sorry – I asked Malik if I could check to see that you’re alright. You both rushed out so fast.” 

L slips into Liam’s lofty, detached persona with an ease that feels like relief. “Why, does he feel I ruined his little show? I think it’s more likely I gave it some needed authenticity.” He pushes the door open wider to let her in and leads her to the living room. B follows, but a glower still shadows his features. 

“What happened?” Her voice is gentle as she lowers herself onto the sofa. The genuine concern on her face reminds L of B. It makes him feel ill.

He turns the question back on her: “What happened, indeed.” 

Blinking uncertainly, she paws a little baggie out from her jacket and drops it on the coffee table. It contains four white capsules. “That’s from Malik, by the way. He thought that the hash might’ve made you paranoid, said this would be better.”

“What the hell is it?” Hostility rouses in B’s voice.

“Just some MDMA.” She shrugs. “You can flush it down the toilet for all I care.” Tipping toward L, she brushes her short bangs out of her eyes and tries to catch his gaze. “But what did happen, really?” 

“Well, I thought I’d ask you that.” L jams the end of his thumb between his teeth and regards her from the opposite end of the sofa. “Is that what usually happens at these seances, or rituals, or whatever they’re called?” 

She shifts on her cushions, clearly surprised by the question. B is, too – L can tell from the tilt of his head. “No. People don’t usually scream like that, no.” 

“But I didn’t scream.” L allows the quiet disbelief to settle around them before continuing. “Someone else was screaming.”

* * *

 

B takes the MDMA from Judith and shoves it in his pocket. He’d taken MDMA once, and it was hard to tell if the visions were any worse from it.  _ Bad time in my life _ . He grinds his nails into his hand, glancing at the sharp twitch in L’s movements.  _ As if Lawliet would ever take something like that. No, only the shit that brings out L the great detective, the only part of him that matters. _

“A presence took hold of me. It was quite remarkable. I wasn’t sure how to explain it, and it was quite overwhelming. But I  _ felt _ someone, a female presence act within my body,” he bugs his eyes out wide, pupils blown to add to the effect, “I believe I was led through a truly spiritual experience.”

“Oh. Oh I can imagine that would be overwhelming.” 

_ Christ, everything is a game with you to get to the case. _ B wants to throw up, shove Judith onto the pavement and her murder case with her.  _ How the hell did I ever think this would be a good idea _ . Lawliet makes a motion with his fingertips to B, ‘ _ check for ears’ _ . He grinds his teeth.

“Why don’t you come in, Judith? Can I take your coat, purse?” 

“Oh, thank you, Brian. You seemed so worried for Liam back there, are you?”

“I’m fine,” it’s a little cold for his character, but B can’t bring himself to give a fuck. Not when Lawliet, L, Liam,  _ whoever the fuck he’s trying to be _ , is staring riveted at her with his hands still shaking slightly behind his back. He takes her to the couch, barely looking at B. He shoves the bugs in the closet, under a pile of coats so that they won’t be heard.

Resisting the urge to give Lawliet the finger, he signs ‘ _ all clear’ _ on his knee.

“Can you tell me more about what the rituals are like? I do want to participate again, I simply needed to process my experience. I wasn’t expecting– much, frankly, but certainly nothing of that intensity.”

“Well. They can be overwheming, and uncomfortable, but they are quite amazing. It’s only natural to get scared. I’m glad you’re alright, and well. I’ve been scared during them, too,” she bites her lip. B can tell the conversation isn’t going the way she wanted it to. 

_ Well that make two of us, sweetheart. _

“In some of the rituals, we’ve done sacrifices. Sometimes there’s. Blood drinking. Malik wants full authenticity.”

“Blood drinking? Of humans?”

“No, no!” her denial is sharp and obvious in its insincerity, “Animal, of course.”

* * *

L can hear the lie in the back of Judith’s throat, nearly begging to be rent loose and exposed to the light. She wants to tell them what she knows, but she’s afraid of what will happen if she does – afraid of cutting all ties with “Malik.” But that’s exactly what she needs to do. Not just because L will need her testimony, but because Lind L. Tailor will eventually discard her. Or worse. And she knows it, or she wouldn’t be here.

“Animal blood?” L gives a loose shrug. “Doesn’t bother me. We’ve been missing a bit of black pudding, in fact.” He turns far enough to give B one of Liam’s careless smirks, catching how B barely manages a quirk of his mouth, his eyes cold and unhappy. 

“I don’t know what that is, but the blood…sometimes there’s been an awful lot of it.” Her palms, cupped over her knees, squeeze until the knuckles turn white. “There’s been, you know, a few accidents. I mean, I think they were accidents." 

L can’t hide his curiosity or concern, which works just fine in this moment. He leans in like a confidante, resting his chin in the palm of his hand, and stares at her hard. "What do you mean, ‘accidents’? Something like what happened with me this evening?”

She shakes her head slowly but tilts a bit in his direction, clearly looking for encouragement; he offers it on the form of a gentle hand against her back, rubbing a slow series of circles along her spine. “Malik knows a lot about Voodoo.” Her voice cracks on the last word. “Not that stuff in the souvenir shops in the quarter, but the real thing. He spent a few years in the bayou, studying the folk magic." 

_ He read Joanna Hewitt’s book, you mean, _ L thinks dryly, even as he squeezes Judith’s shoulder. 

"He made zombies." 

She looks alarmed by the words, as if she had only meant to think them, not say them aloud, even going so far as to clap a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and watery. 

"Zombies?” The sofa feels watery and uncertain beneath L’s body – so used to seeing things from every potential angle, he doesn’t do well with being blindsided.

“I – I don’t know what else you could call them.” Her gaze darts around the room, probably expecting Lind to leap out and silence her. “They were…dead inside, I guess. Just shells.”

L’s eyes flick to B’s and sees his own intrigue mirrored there. 

“Who were they?” B’s voice is soft, coaxing. “Friends of yours? Part of the collective?" 

She shakes her head, some of the anxiety finally draining from her face. "No. They weren’t anyone important. Just tourists.” She tucks non-existent hair behind her ear, probably a habit she had when she was younger and didn’t have it cropped so short. 

“Ethan and Karla, I think. That was their names.”

* * *

 

It isn’t hard for B to fake shock and concern at the claims of ‘zombies’.  _ That’s a level of fucked up. _ Probably used their bodies as part of one of his private shows. B feels sick to his stomach and wrung out. Feeling like I could be a zombie right now.

_ Shit _ . The rustle and clatter of bone wings makes B flinch despite himself. Nirae, eyes wide and unblinking, materializes through the wall just looking over Judith.  _ God that’s it. I can’t do this. _

B takes a shuddering breath, painfully aware of how much he is failing to stay in character, “Look um. Thanks for coming by but I think Liam and I are gonna need to talk in private about this.”

“Oh! Of course,” Judith shrinks into herself, the hurt flitting across her pretty face, “I know it’s a lot to take in. You’ve had quite the shock.”

“Yeah.” B can see from the way she tightens her lip that she’s close to tears.  _ I know that’s not what you wanted to hear. _ L frowns and B can’t tell if that’s Liam or the detective glaring at him. He signs to stand down, hoping that Lawliet is in there somewhere amidst the too-fast heartbeat and the dime-sized eyes.

“Alright. I’ll walk you out, Dulcinea. Brian, I will be right with you,” L slips a hand on the small of her back, ever playing the concerned and possessive rich fucker.  _ It’s all fantasy, everything for the case. _ B looks away, staring up at Nirae. As soon as they’re out the door, he looks up warily to his own fantasy-turned-reality.

“What the hell do you want?”

“Oh just to say hullo, Beyond. It does get boring, waiting for one’s date to be up,” she cocks her head at him, and he remembers what she’d whispered in the bookshop.

“Some of us have shit to do,” B mutters furiously.  _ God, as if Lawliet thought Nirae would be helpful. About as ‘helpful’ as any of the other fucking hallucinations for the case. _

_ Only the one skill I’ve got is helpful there. _

“He’s kissing her,” Nirae tilts her head at the window. An unwanted stab of jealousy breaks through B’s stomach, followed immediately by a burst of shame.  _ It’s not like Lawliet gives a damn about her. _

_ But L sure as hell cares about her case. _

“Yeah. She’s gonna be a good witness,” B takes out a cigarette, hand shaking slightly. His stomach feels like a heavy pit, and other visions are starting to crawl at the corners of the room.  _ Christ why couldn’t I just… _ he digs his nails in his hands, drawing blood.

“We probably could have gotten it from her where the bodies are. Fuck.”

_ But at what cost?  _ That thought flares with a wave of hatred as he glares at L.  _ For some of us, the shit we have to live with doesn’t have a fucking pill for it. For some of us destroying ourselves slowly isn’t a fucking option. _

Nirae tilts her head, clicking her strange beak, “I know where the bodies you’re looking for are.”

* * *

Ushering Judith to the door, L’s hand is strong and assured against the small of her back. Or so it seems in this moment, now that it’s Liam’s hand. 

“Sorry about Brian,” he mutters once he has the front door shut behind them, the quiet replaced by the distant revelry of Bourbon Street a few blocks away. “He’s rather shook by the events from earlier this evening.”

"Of course he is.” She looks relieved to hear it, though. 

He spreads his fingers wider against her back, feeling how her heart hammers at her spine. “How’d he do it? The zombies. And why?”

She lowers her eyelids, lashes casting long shadows along her cheeks in the dim porch-light. “I don’t know how. It’s all part of his various studies. And I think he wanted…” She draws in a long breath, and out with it comes a lie. “To prove something. Prove the extent of his power." 

_ A lie. Lind wanted more than that. But what? _

L lets his face fall, twist into enough of a wry smile for her to know that he sees the lie and is let down by it. "Sometimes I’m not sure who you’re afraid of. Him, or me.”

Her eyes go wide. “I’m not afraid of you." 

"Of what you feel, then." 

And it’s like something scripted, the tinny, bluesy brass sound of jazz warbling in the distance as the darkness of the veranda pushes them close for a kiss, her mouth warm but stiff until she sighs and melts against him. L’s fingers drop down to her hips and squeeze. _ Is this how easy it is for B? _ It’s stupidly easy. 

"I should go.” The words come out in a rush as she pulls away, but she’s smiling despite herself, clawing blindly for the stair railing. “I should…” She cuts off and gives him an absurd wave before dashing down the steps. She doesn’t fall, at least.  _ A witness with a broken neck isn’t much of a witness. _

Inside, he shuts the door behind him and leans against it, scrubbing at his face with his hands. Liam is clinging like a strange moss, but it all falls away when he hears B’s voice from the living room. 

“Well, where are they, then?" 

Coming round the corner from the hallway, L expects to find B on the phone, but he’s in the exact same spot where L left him, looking in the direction of where Judith was just sitting, talking to thin air. A sensation of collapse unfurls through L’s bones, stopping him in his tracks.  _ He thinks he’s talking to Nirae _ . 

* * *

“In the Bayou. They were quite clever hiding the corpses,” Nirae tilts her head back, cackling almost regretfully, “It’s too fitting that you would be after them, Beyond. They’ve been the most interesting thing in my life for the past year. Well. Seems fitting that there story will end where mine will.”

“Where in the Bayou?”  B twitches his lips, weighing the risks.  _ I don’t much want to follow a monster into somewhere isolated where she can fuck us over...somehow.  _

_ But she did cooperate with Lawliet’s game, didn’t she? _

“Savage Bayou,” she half-snarls and laughs again, “Funny isn’t it, that as long as they’re past dead, I can tell you whatever I like.”

The name struck a chord in B’s head, “Can you come upstairs?”

He pushed past Lawliet on the way out, “We still have that stack of tourist shit on the desk, right?  _ I remember Bayou Sauvage State Park– not a bad place to dump a few bodies. They’re probably not the only ones there.  _ He caught sight of a flicker of confusion and frustration on Lawliet’s face, but doesn’t linger on it.  _ If this is real….it’ll be worth it for us. _

“Can you read a map? Tell me where I’d have to go,” he holds the pen to the map with trembling hands.  _ Am I really that desperate? For the case? _

_ For her to be real? _ His skin crawls as she looms over him. She doesn’t breathe, he notices, which makes the hair on his arms stand up.

“Oh you are clever. That’s it. They even followed the trail. See– right along to a bench before the walk turns west. All in the dark with high mud boots– it was shallow then. They found a deep spot a quarter mile east next to a tree with roots like a giant hand. The bodies are right beneath. Turning to dust,” She clicks her beak together like the gnashing of teeth, “it’s so long just waiting, Beyond. It’s been so long.”

“Yeah–” B’s heart was beating, “Thanks. I. I guess.” 

He realizes Lawliet is watching from the door, face blank and neutral as B has ever seen it. “Nirae. She knows where the bodies are. We can go check it out tomorrow. Big tree deep in the state park where they dumped them. Right in the swamp.”

He holds up the map, “It sounds crazy but. I think we should try it. She’s here for a reason, right?”

_ And I guess she’s trying to help. _

* * *

 

L tilts his head from side to side. It doesn’t do a thing, the roar of his own heartbeat still fills his ears. He’s surveilled people with hallucinations before, both visual and auditory. Watched them have conversations with the specters conjured up by drugs or their very own brains.  _ It didn’t look like this _ . B’s vision is trained in one spot, unmoving, only his face changing expression as if in direct response to someone’s whispered words. 

The possibility that the bird-doll-monster thing is real - _ to B, at least _ \- turns his knees and ankles to jelly. He lowers himself onto the sofa slowly, turning his attention to the map spread out between B’s thighs. That’s it – solid. Real. Coordinates. He touches the paper, relishing its smooth and slightly rumpled material. 

“Under a tree, out in the open.” He traces a path over the map’s surface. “Why not hidden? Why a state park?” He frowns, makes room for Lind L. Tailor in his head, finds he doesn’t want him there. “We’ll know more when we see what state the bodies are in.”

_ If we see the bodies.  _

And if there’s nothing there… No, he’ll deal with that later. When the time comes. If it comes. 

L is used to wanting to get to the bottom of things. Not having all the answers pesters at him like a cloud of mosquitoes. That used to be true of B and his visions, as well. It was one of the first details he learned about B, back when they were just ten, and L had been fascinated, eager to determine whether the death dates were real. He never did determine their cause, but became a true believer just the same. The first and only time he’s exercised ‘faith’ in his life.

But this.  _ This _ . Can he believe in this Nirae, Shinigami, on faith alone? The weakness in his own bones makes him doubt it. 

_ I was a different person when I found B. _

The unwelcome thought brings with it a wash of profound sadness, and he sweeps the map off B’s legs and curls himself under his shoulder, wrapping his arms tightly around his ribcage and taking comfort in his scent. Stale cigarettes and something sharp, like pine sap. “Let’s go to bed.” His voice is muffled against B’s shirt. “Head out when the sun comes up.” 

He won’t sleep, but both of them know that.

_ Bayou Map [do not edit or repost] _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and comments would be much appreciated :)


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